


The Irish Connection

by ThePash



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-12 06:11:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 37
Words: 67,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4468283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePash/pseuds/ThePash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story begins from where S3 left off. Because I couldn't wait any longer....There will be approximately 37?? chapters. Thanks for reading.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes raced down the steps from the private jet, staring at his mobile phone; the 'Did You Miss Me?' gif playing on a loop onscreen. Reaching his brother's side, he swiftly ushered him and the Watsons back into the car. The chauffeur raised an enquiring brow to Mycroft, querying their destination.

"St Bart's hospital; as fast as you can", Sherlock barked; and without further delay the driver sped out of the airfield. Mary and John strapped themselves in, both attempting to speak at the same time. Sherlock held up his hand and typed a predetermined coded text to Dr Molly Hooper. 'Vatican Cameos'. It was a text he had hoped he would never have to send. Mycroft, noting the stark tension on the face of his younger brother; lifted his own mobile and called Chief Inspector Lestrade.

"We are at minimum a half hour from St. Bart's Hospital, how far away are you?"

Lestrade estimated ten minutes. Sherlock held out his hand wordlessly and Mycroft handed him his phone.

"Secure Molly Hooper, Greg", he paused, and then added softly, "please?"

Lestrade hung up, ordered an armed response unit to the hospital and raced, sirens blaring, to find Sherlock Holmes's pathologist. Sherlock looked at Mycroft; trying to disguise the fear choking his chest. "She hasn't sent the response text Mycroft; there's something wrong." Mycroft held his brothers gaze.

"It is also possible, Sherlock, that she is in no danger and simply does not have her phone on her person; let's not leap to unsubstantiated conclusions, brother mine". Sherlock set his lips tightly and rolled his eyes.

"Trace her phone now Mycroft; and find out for certain".

He scanned the cars' interior, and his brother, with a barely discernible turn of his head.

"I know you're currently armed. There are two other weapons in this car. Hand them over!" he demanded.

Mycroft sighed, glanced at the chauffeur who nodded and, keeping one hand on the wheel, opened the glove-box, extracted two revolvers and handed them back to Mycroft. Mycroft bypassed Sherlock and handed one revolver across his lap to the very pregnant Mary Watson.

"This appears to be an appropriate time to come out of retirement, Mrs Watson".

Mary took the weapon, eyeballed him brazenly, and nodded. John, sitting in the passenger seat up front, stared at the three people in the back in growing comprehension and incredulity.

"Oh, no way; absolutely bloody not! Mary Watson; you are keeping that gun and waiting in the car. You, Mycroft, will give me the other one. Considering recent events Sherlock, you are not getting your hands on any bloody gun. You and I shall take the back of Bart's and head straight for the morgue. Mycroft; you and 'Mr MI6 Clearly Not a Chauffeur' will take the front door and make your way to the lab. Between us we'll find Molly. Is that bloody clear everybody?"

Four heads nodded in unison. Mycroft handed the second revolver over to John. Even he knew not to argue with John Watson when his blood was up. The silence in the speeding car was broken by the buzzing of an incoming text message to Sherlock's phone. It was from Molly but it was definitely not the agreed response.

'Too late. Somebody's here. Help me'. Seconds later the Gms icon indicating the location of Molly's phone disappeared from Sherlock's screen. And they were still ten minutes away.

Dr Molly Hooper; along with many of her colleagues, stared at the staffroom TV, aghast and disbelieving. That was just not possible, how could this be? Moriarty was dead. He was supposed to be bloody dead. She replayed the events of 'that day', fighting back panic. The day her relationship with Sherlock Holmes was definitively architected and concrete foundations poured. The first time he really nee

ded and trusted her, putting his life in her hands. That same day that she put her career and professional reputation in his, without a second's hesitation or a moment of regret. That night a shocked Sherlock had told her that Moriarty had shot himself through the mouth, thus forcing him to make the jump from the hospital roof. She'd had her hands full taking care of Sherlock directly after 'the fall', smuggling him out of the hospital and hiding him in her flat until Mycroft was ready to dispatch him off to God knows where. Mycroft had been left in charge of Moriarty's body. Obviously that was a mistake. She should have autopsied the bastard herself. Then she'd know for sure.

So much had happened to both herself and Sherlock since then, and things were 'a bit not good' (as John would say) between them now. He had avoided her since the whole 'testing positive for drugs and consequent slapping incident' and she had avoided him since the whole 'Janine fake girlfriend' farce. He'd been shot and almost fatally injured, then disappeared from his hospital bed in an escapade of such incredible stupidity that she wondered if he had a death wish. S

he had visited him one night soon after his second surgery, while he was still heavily sedated and barely conscious, because she needed to see him alive and breathing with her own eyes. She'd sat with him that night for hours. As she held his cold hand in hers, repeatedly stroking his knuckles, she'd reassured him over and over,

"you're ok now Sherlock, everything's fine and you just need to rest. You're ok; you're ok".

She was well aware that the person she was really trying to reassure and comfort was herself. However, what she was quite unaware of was that he had heard her. Nor was she aware that he'd smiled to himself as she left, or that he'd settled down to rest, turning his face into the hand she had held, calmed at last because Molly Hooper, his Molly, had finally come to see him.

Molly dug her hand into the pocket of her white coat, searching for her mobile phone. She needed to call Sherlock, see what his thoughts were on all this saturated coverage of Moriarty. She wanted to know if he had any information on all this, whether it was a hoax or whether it merited serious consideration. She knew that their security alert arrangement would be unaffected by any personal issues between them. She acknowledged ruefully to herself that she also wanted to check on him and see how he was doing. She was one of the few who were aware of the toll Moriarty had taken on his psyche, as much as he'd scoff at the very notion. This gave her a perfect excuse for calling him and anyway, she'd been missing him very badly.

Molly groaned audibly, realising that she'd left her phone in her office in the morgue. As she left the busy staffroom to retrieve it, she failed to notice the two innocuous looking men in white doctors' garb stand up from their table and follow her. Moving quickly through the labyrinth of bustling corridors, Molly made her way down to the morgue. The corridors were becoming less inhabited the nearer she got to her destination. The morgue was not the natural inclination for most of her colleagues; which, normally, suited her just fine. Today, however, she began to feel unnerved and couldn't shirk the feeling that something was off. She picked up her pace. Now she desperately wanted to contact Sherlock.

It was when she was approaching the double swing doors of the morgue that she heard it and her heart lurched into her mouth. It was the distinctive sound of footsteps, multiple sets, running behind her and getting louder. She bolted through the morgue doors and turned the lock, knowing that it wouldn't hold off anyone determined enough to break in for very long. Shaking with fear, she ran to her office, slamming and locking the door behind her. She grabbed her phone from her desk and saw a stream of text notifications on the screen. They were mainly from friends and colleagues concerned about the dead man's broadcasts. Then she heard the sound of smashing glass and knew that whoever they were; they were definitely coming for her.

With shaking hands she scrolled for a message from Sherlock. _**'Vatican Cameos!'**._ Christ; it was their code, and he'd sent it twenty minutes ago. She thought perversely that even if she survived whatever had crashed through the morgue doors and was now battering down her office door, that Sherlock would probably kill her himself for forgetting her phone. He'd been so definitive about keeping it on her person, and she had assured him that she would. Hiding under her desk she typed a response to Sherlock and after pressing 'send', waited, trembling and terrified, to be discovered. She heard her office door being kicked in, male voices muttering expletives and then rough hands pulled her by the hair from under her desk. Grabbing her mobile phone from her hands, one of the thugs smashed it on her desk and ripped the battery out while the other reined vicious blows on her torso and, when she bent over in agony, on her back. As the men started to drag her out of her office, Molly began to scream.


	2. The Irish Connection - Chapter 2

Chapter 2 Chief Inspector Lestrade and his Special Response Team stormed through the main doors of the hospital. There had been no time to evacuate it before the decision had been made to move in. Lestrade was not convinced an extreme measure, such as an evacuation of the major London hospital, was necessary in this case; despite Sherlock's concerns. He reckoned their target was quite specific. Moving swiftly through the lobby the team split up to search the most likely places to locate Dr Molly Hooper. Lestrade indicated to his team that he would search the morgue; taking two men with him. They were one corridor away when they heard the sound of a muffled scream. The three men broke into a run. They reached the morgue corridor; the floor nearest the doors was coated in broken glass. Suddenly, two men burst through the shattered morgue door, dragging a petite woman, kicking and struggling, between them. Lestrade let out an enraged roar and immediately the thugs panicked. Realising that they could not continue to abduct the woman and hope to escape, one of them shoved her viciously on the floor. Molly landed heavily on her left wrist, fracturing it on impact, and lay still. Her attackers swiftly turned and raced towards the back door of the hospital, unwittingly heading straight into the path of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. The other two men on his team gave chase. Lestrade reached Molly in an instant and pulled out his phone to call for medical assistance.

Sherlock and John were barely through the back door of the hospital when they saw two men in white coats racing towards them, throwing glances behind them as if they were being pursued. The two friends stopped still and blocked their path. Expecting them to step aside, Molly's attackers kept running, colliding respectively with Sherlock's fist and John's foot. They both tumbled to the ground. Sherlock's initial intention had been to apprehend the men and find out why they were acting so suspiciously but as he leaned over one of the prostrate man, he froze. He sniffed the suspect to confirm what he'd already deduced. This man had recently been in physical contact with Dr. Molly Hooper. Keeping a knee on his chest to contain him, Sherlock gripped his suspects' right hand and turned it over. The man struggled to get free but he may as well have been held in a vice grip. Forcing the hand around; Sherlock noted the fresh bruising on his knuckles and then noticed something else, something that made his mouth set in a grim line and a cold rage surge through him like an electric charge.

"That's Molly's hair, John, there, caught in this bastard's fingers. That's Molly's hair". Then Sherlock punched his suspect hard in the face.

John swiftly secured his man with cable ties he had learned to carry with him from his association with Sherlock. Turning around sharply he struggled to pull Sherlock off the other suspect, worried that he'd end up killing a second man in as many months. Suddenly, another pair of hands grasped Sherlock's shoulders and between them they managed to restrain him. Lestrade's team had arrived. There was no need to secure Sherlock's suspect. He was unconscious, which, considering the beating Sherlock had administered, was probably a blessed relief to him. The policemen, recognising the duo as the Chief Inspector's friends, swiftly briefed them. Sherlock took off at a sprint, heading straight for A&E. He needed to find Molly. As he raced through the long corridors his mind flashed with images of her, battered and broken, and for the first time in his life he knew what real terror felt like. He had done everything he could to keep her safe, keep her off the radar. He'd limited the time he spent with her, deliberately keeping her at a distance so none of his enemies would associate her with him. He had deprived himself, and her, of any sort of romantic relationship, something he knew she'd wanted and he had secretly craved. It had become increasingly difficult to be in her company and not have her, not really be with her, so he stayed away, hurting them both in the process. All to no avail though because, somehow, they'd figured it out and come after her anyway. He would find out who had orchestrated this assault and he would make them pay dearly but right now all he could focus on was getting to Molly.

Mycroft, grim faced, terminated his phone call. He stood in a chaotic A&E awaiting the imminent arrival of his brother. Molly Hooper had been dispatched to the x-ray department almost immediately, under the escort of the concerned and capable Chief Inspector Lestrade. Sherlock burst through the double doors and, in a telling gesture, ran his hand through his hair as his eyes scanned the room, finally settling on his brother.

"How bad is she Mycroft?" he asked; not bothering to hide the anxiety he knew his brother would inevitably perceive.

"It's not pretty Sherlock, but she'll live", Mycroft replied. "She's suffered cuts and bruising, possible broken ribs and certainly, a broken right wrist. She has not spoken a word as yet. Lestrade is with her now in x-ray".

As Sherlock turned to go in search of Molly; Mycroft caught his arm;

"I'm afraid there is something else Sherlock; I've just received word that Dr Hooper's home is aflame. Its early days but it would appear to have been caused by some type of incendiary device. No casualties; that we can ascertain. I have some calls to make. May I suggest you remove Dr Hooper from here after her treatment? We cannot fully guarantee her safety in this location. I propose we reconvene at Baker Street, which is currently one of the few places in London that I am confident is completely secure, despite, or perversely, because of, the fact that the worlds' press is currently gathering on your doorstep".

Sherlock sighed deeply, nodded to his brother in agreement, and headed for the x-ray department.

Due to the welcome intervention of Mycroft Holmes, Molly's treatment had been fast tracked and Lestrade, standing close to her chair in a curtained off section of the treatment ward, watched in concern as the female nurse strapped up her broken wrist. The nurse had decided not to set it in a hard cast due to the possibility of further swelling. The splinters of glass had been removed from her hands and knees. Miraculously, she had required no stitches. White faced and silent, Molly winced as the nurse tightened and secured the wrapping on her wrist. The nurse hummed in sympathy and promised she was almost finished. Molly's ribs were screaming at her and her body ached all over. Standing then, she closed her eyes and kept them closed as the nurse then proceeded to strap up her torso with bandages to support her midriff. True to her word, the nurse completed her task swiftly. She secured Molly's bandage and helped her back into her blouse. The good news was her ribs were not broken but she was severely bruised, from her chest to her thighs, which was not a surprise to her, considering the level of assault she had suffered. Her scalp throbbed where they had pulled her hair and the mother of all headaches was gearing up behind her eyes. The hustle and bustle of the ward further grated on her frayed nerves and she struggled to control her distress. Then she heard Sherlock's distinctive baritone softly calling her name.

Sherlock, frustrated at not finding Molly in the x-ray department, strode swiftly to the treatment ward where he quickly located her in an area curtained off for privacy. She looked pale and shaken. Her eyes were closed fast and Lestrade was standing stiffly, close to her side. She was nursing her broken wrist high on her chest but she was standing on her own two feet. Bruises were already visible on her arms and upper chest and small spots of blood were seeping through the cloth bandages on her hands and knees. Breathing in deeply he clenched his jaw, nodded at Lestrade in quiet acknowledgement and gratitude. Swallowing hard; he murmured her name. Her eyes snapped open and locked onto his. Instinctively; Sherlock held his two arms out to her. Her big brown eyes flooded with tears and, launching herself into his chest, she began to cry, finally releasing all the terror of the last hour.

"I fought them Sherlock; I did, I fought them really hard. I'm so sorry about my phone. I forgot...I forgot it" Sherlock held her gently, stroking her hair and kissing the top of her head.

"It's all right Molly; you're safe now, I've got you. You're ok. You did really well. I know you fought and because you did you delayed them just enough until help arrived; you were very brave." He knew they should move out of the hospital but he found himself unable to release her. If anything, he gripped her even tighter to himself. Molly, in turn, rested her damaged arm against his chest and wrapped the other tightly around his waist under his bloody ridiculous, fabulous, and endearingly familiar coat.

"Take me home Sherlock; please, I want to go home". Groaning inwardly, Sherlock, keeping his arm firmly around her, guided her outside the ward and into the quieter corridor. He led her to a seating area and sat down beside her. He gently touched her cheek, tilting her face up to look at him.

"I'm so sorry Molly, but you cannot go back to your flat." She stared at him in confusion.

"Why not, is it really Moriarty then? Did he do this to me? Maybe you'll stay with me just for tonight so?" He couldn't help rolling his eyes and smiling at her.

"Molly Hooper, as if I have any intention of letting you out of my sight!" Her eyes lit up at him in response and she gave him a tremulous smile.

"Well ok; let's go now then. I want to get out of here..." Her voice faltered to a stop as he looked intently back at her. "What's going on Sherlock; what are you not telling me?" He sighed deeply and took her good hand in both of his.

"Your flat is gone Molly. Someone set it on fire and everything is destroyed. They're still dampening the flames now. It happened almost simultaneously with your assault here. I'm so sorry".

She stared at him, her mouth dropping open in shock, trying to process her new reality. It wasn't so much the loss of her clothes and furniture that distressed her most but the loss of her photo album was visceral. Her parents had both passed away and they were all she had left of them. She withdrew her hand from his and hugging herself, she bent over, letting out a moan of distress. Sherlock wrapped his arm across her back and pulled her into him, rocking her gently. He glanced up and caught sight of Lestrade gaping at him in open astonishment. Sherlock threw him an eye roll and then mouthed to him to fetch Molly's bag. They had to start making a move. Turning back towards the ward Lestrade greeted John, who had just arrived onto the scene. The doctor had reluctantly stayed back with the police to monitor the physical health of the still unconscious suspect. He was unsurprised that Molly's principal assailant was not to be treated at St. Bart's. Rather, orders had come from on high (aka Mycroft Holmes) that said suspect was to be removed to a secure location. John had waited to ensure that this order was fully enforced. Observing the tender scene currently playing out in front of him, John wondered not for the first time lately, just what was going on between Molly and Sherlock. What was she to him, really? Because it was becoming increasingly apparent that Molly was certainly Sherlock's 'something'. He thought back to the time in the lab when Sherlock had allowed Molly to slap him hard when he'd tested positive for drugs, slapped not just once but three times! John knew that Sherlock could have easily blocked even her first strike, but he hadn't so much as raised a hand in defence. Sure, he'd passed a smart arsed comment about her broken engagement, but that in itself was also telling. His reaction today to his, unfortunately correct, deduction of the danger she was in, was, to John, unprecedented. He had never seen Sherlock so worried. And as for the gentle way he was dealing with Molly now, well, no way he wasn't teasing the truth out of Sherlock later…Then there was the curious matter of the letter that Sherlock had entrusted him with to pass on to Molly…it would all keep for now but John was definitely going to quiz his 'girlfriends; not my area..' friend when the opportunity presented itself.

Lestrade briefed and updated John as both stood by, keeping a weather eye on the couple. Wanting to give the two some privacy, Sherlock's friends complied with his request and turned back into the ward to retrieve Molly's jacket and bag. Both men were acutely aware that, with the exception of the clothes she stood up in, they currently constituted all her worldly goods. Mary sighed with relief when she finally spotted her husband and Lestrade emerge from the front door of the hospital, followed closely by Sherlock and Molly. Sherlock was holding a protective arm around Molly's shoulders. Mary had been briefed on events by Mycroft on his way out so she was very concerned about Molly. However, she noted wryly, Molly appeared to be in safe hands. John made to join his wife in the back seat but Sherlock shook his head no and pointed him to the front passenger seat. He ushered Molly into the rear seat beside Mary, climbing in after her so she would be hidden from view. Lestrade escorted the car out of Bart's in one police car and another took up the rear. Sirens blaring; he ordered the driver not to stop; not even for traffic lights. Inside the large luxurious government car; nobody spoke a word. Mary placed a comforting hand on Molly's shoulder. Molly, white faced, stared downwards, clenching the fist of her good hand tightly. Sherlock reached across, gently unclenched it and took her hand in his. He held it all the way to Baker Street. On approach, knowing they were going to face a gauntlet of press, Sherlock planned their procession into the house, John and Mary first and then he and Molly would take the rear, with Lestrade acting as rear guard. As he made to leave the car Molly tapped his arm.

"When I get out I want to walk; unaided; to the door. Stand beside me by all means but just this instance, don't touch me or physically support me, ok? I want the bastard that did this to me, whoever he is, to see me stand on my own two feet Sherlock…see that they did not break me."

Sherlock smiled proudly at his pathologist. She was obviously in pain and still a little in shock but she was also stubborn and determined. He nodded at her and proceeded around the car to where John was holding the door open for Mary. Together the soldier and the consulting detective stood honour guard as Molly followed Mary out of the car, past the barrage of press photographers and through the front door of 221B Baker Street. When his friends had passed safely into the house Sherlock turned to the press and informed them briefly that he would be liaising with the authorities and, that a statement would be released in due course. He then entered 221B and closed the door firmly behind him.


	3. The Irish Connection - Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Sherlock stood and observed activities in his flat from the hallway. Mary and Molly were already settled on the couch. Mrs Hudson, no doubt having been briefed by Mycroft, was serving tea and sandwiches. John, unable to sit still, was pacing the living room floor, and Mycroft, well his older brother seemed to be parrying queries on his mobile whilst simultaneously strategizing with four burly MI5 agents and Lestrade. Orders received, the agents took positions, two making their way outside to guard the front door and the other two passed him by to stand guard in the hallway. Mycroft beckoned his brother over to him and without a word, showed him an email he'd just received from the Prime Minister.

'Irish Gov. Representative on route to Baker Street. Afford her every courtesy, and, this time, actually consider her intelligence on bloody Moriarty. We, and by that I mean you, will be liaising fully with the Irish on this. Do ensure your brother does not set our current halcyon Anglo Irish relations back by decades Mycroft. And keep me briefed.'

Sherlock frowned at his brother.

What does he mean, "this time" Mycroft? Do inform the class".

Mycroft sighed and, clearing his throat to catch everyone's attention, he then addressed the room:

"Aoife Quinn, 35 years old, seconded to a very senior position in the Irish Government's Department of Justice, Equality and Law Reform, met with me, by official request, three months ago. She is very bright, an incredibly popular figure in Ireland and highly accomplished in many fields of expertise. Namely, and in no particular order: strategy, defence, international affairs, politics, enterprise and security. She is from a prominent Irish family and CEO of their family business; which happens to be the largest of Ireland's indigenous companies. Re-named after her deceased brother, Oísin, Oísin Holdings are Ireland's largest employer. It is also worth mentioning at this point that Ireland has had an irritating success in attracting practically every leading digital, communications and IT company on this planet to locate their European headquarters there. Google, Facebook, Intel, Dell, LinkedIn, Twitter, Microsoft...it would be quicker to list those companies that are not located there. Ireland is now the European equivalent of Silicone Valley. Consider that IT situation carefully in light of the hacking of communications systems here today. Also worth noting; Ms Quinn is working for her Government because she chooses to. She is on a singular mission. She long claims that Moriarty killed her twin brother when they were fifteen years old. However it happened, Oisín Quinn went over a cliff in West Kerry one summer night; whilst attending an Irish cultural summer camp, just hours after rebuffing the advances of a teenage Moriarty. It was classified as accidental death. This verdict was never accepted by the Quinn family. They were consoled with the widespread reporting of Moriarty's apparent suicide for a time…"

At that point Sherlock, exasperated, interrupted his brother's report.

"That's all quite fascinating Mycroft but why then is she still on a mission, when the world thought Moriarty was dead until this morning?

Mycroft rolled his eyes in response and continued.

"The purpose of her recent meeting with me was to tell me that Moriarty stood directly in her path in Grafton Street, Dublin, three months ago, smirked in her face and disappeared into the crowd. I did not take this claim seriously as you had informed me that you witnessed him blowing his own head off. Were you mistaken Sherlock?"

Sherlock glared at his brother and retorted, "No more mistaken then you were in declaring him dead, Mycroft. His brain matter was splattered on the roof. I didn't take his bloody pulse; did you? Molly was assisting me after my 'fall' and did not perform his autopsy. Frankly, I don't trust anyone else." Mycroft sighed.

"I was not on the roof Sherlock. I was informed by you and others, that he was dead. I recommended that his body be buried at sea, The Irish Sea, to be precise. In the absence of any family popping up to claim his mortal remains the Irish authorities agreed. That was supposed to be the end of the matter. It would appear that this may not be the case. We just do not know at this juncture." Sherlock sighed in irritation.

"Well, we do know one thing at least, brother mine, Aoife Quinn did not exhaust every avenue of investigation. She did not consult with me."

"Well that is a mistake that I shall not repeat; Mr Holmes, it's a pleasure to finally meet you. Hello everyone, I'm Aoife and I would like your assistance in capturing my brother's murderer".

All heads swung around to see a solemn faced young woman standing in the doorway; flanked by a MI6 agent,

"Sorry to interrupt you, security let me in, I believe I'm expected?" Striding across to the Holmes brothers she held out her hand to Mycroft and broke into a smile.

"Hi again Mycroft, I'll just say it the once..; I told you so!" Mycroft smiled back and shook her hand warmly.

"We'll see Aoife. It's early days yet and we don't have all the facts, but certainly, this case has broken wide open again, and I look forward to working with you. You are familiar with the identities of everyone here but let me make formal introductions. This is my brother, Sherlock."

Aoife turned and looked into Sherlock's face for the first time. She froze momentarily as she stared at him. Sadness flashed across her face as she held out her hand.

"I can see why James Moriarty fixated on you Sherlock. You are just his type. You are the living image of my brother".

Sherlock studied the Irish woman as he shook her hand. Five foot eight inches tall, long auburn hair, athletic, competent in at least two martial art disciplines, friendly, charming and very determined.

"I am pleased to meet you; and I am sorry for your loss. Show me what you have?" She smiled at him.

"Of course, but please could you look while we're in the air? We must get going now; my plane is waiting on the runway for us all. I'm flying all of you back to Ireland. We believe that's where he's hiding and, I'm sorry to say, that everyone here is vital to our investigation and, consequently, probably under threat. We've also traced the signal source of the 'Miss Me' gif to a warehouse County Wicklow, so we should start there. We've used heat sensors from a Garda helicopter to scan the location. There's no sign of life there currently so I've ordered them to stand back on the off chance that the perpetrators return. We're keeping it under observation for now but time is of the essence. I'd prefer if you, Sherlock, could have a look before forensics go in. I've managed to hold them off until tomorrow morning".

She laughed then. "I believe you were just at the same airfield just a few hours ago? I'm so glad your exile was lifted Sherlock. We would appreciate your help on this."

Sherlock groaned inwardly, wishing that 'the Irish Government' was less well informed. He glanced sideways at Molly, hoping against hope that she had missed that comment. She, clearly from her devastated expression, had not. Molly had been sipping her tea and, along with the Watsons, following the exchanges with interest. At the Irish woman's innocent comment regarding his 'exile', her hand froze mid-air. Her eyes locked on Sherlock's and she saw the guilty truth written there. Molly's face went rigid; her jaw set and she stared off into the distance, breathing deeply and trying to keep control. Seeing her reaction, Sherlock's chest constricted. This was not good, not good at all. Before he could interject, the Irish woman, Aoife, approached the Watson's and Molly, her hand extended in greeting. Molly's inherent good manners kicked in and, wincing in pain, she stood to shake her hand. She went through the motions on autopilot, accepting her kind sympathies for the day's traumatic events and, when Aoife moved on to the Watson's, Molly walked slowly over to the Holmes brothers. Ignoring Sherlock completely she requested a private word with Mycroft. Moving into the kitchen with him she looked up at him and stated quietly

"I am not going to Ireland with Sherlock. Find me a safe house and put me there if you must, but I will not go anywhere with him!".

Turning swiftly away to hide her tears, she walked into the bathroom and closed the door behind her. This latest shock was one too many. The trauma of the events of the day finally catching up with her; she leaned her back against it and sliding down to her hunkers, she put her head in her hands and started to cry.Sherlock swallowed hard. He'd made a mess of this. In the aftermath of Molly's assault he'd overlooked the fact that he had not personally informed her of his imposed exile. He had made arrangements to communicate with her by letter instead, after the fact. He'd had every intention of seeing Molly before...well before Mycroft's prediction of his demise. But she didn't know that, and that was on him. Now she was crying and in distress and it was his fault. This was a disaster and the timing couldn't be worse. Molly had to come with him to Ireland, he would not leave without her. That was a non-starter because he was determined to control her security himself. Yet it would appear that Ireland was where he needed to go to begin the hunt for Moriarty or whomever it was that had unleashed the mayhem of today. That same person had orchestrated the attack on Molly herself. She was a target now and he did not trust a living soul to protect her except the people currently in his flat. The room had gone silent and all eyes were on Sherlock. Mycroft sighed heavily and gave him a look that spoke volumes. Ever the diplomat, he motioned to John to join him and Sherlock in the kitchen.

"The letter my errand brother gave you to pass on to Dr Hooper; do you still have it?"

John glared at Sherlock, flabbergasted that he had not arranged to actually see Molly before he'd supposedly left England for good. He checked his inside jacket pocket and nodded in affirmation to Mycroft.

"Well, now may be an opportune time to pass it to her, John; unless, that is, the contents will actually upset the woman more; if that's even possible after the day she's had. Will it Sherlock?"

Sherlock's eyes were locked on the closed bathroom door. Ignoring Mycroft, and realising that any intervention on his part would possibly upset Molly further, he asked John to check on her, give her the letter and, if possible, move her into his bedroom, where she could have a little privacy. There were just too many people in his bloody flat. John nodded, crossed the room and gently knocked on the bathroom door.

Aoife caught Sherlock's eye and she threw him a sympathetic smile.

"May I suggest that some of the party start to make their way to the airstrip now Sherlock? Mycroft's men have already packed for you all and the luggage is on route to the airstrip. Perhaps you, Dr Watson and Dr Hooper could follow in the second car? Mycroft, could you come with me and we can catch up on route? We'll take Mrs Watson too. What do you think Sherlock? He nodded at her in gratitude.

"Excellent plan Ms Quinn, off you go everybody, quickly now, the plane is waiting. We're right behind you. Bye bye now!"

Aoife laughed at that. She turned to Sherlock and quietly asked him to reassure 'his doctor' that she would arrange for provisions for her, clothes, footwear, sleepwear etc. and that it would be in situ when they arrived. She urged him not to be too long as she had to log a flight path and if they delayed further, they'd lose their slot. With that she helped Mary into her coat, and escorted by one of the MI5 agents, they left the flat. Sighing in relief at their exit, he flopped down into his chair, feet and fingers tapping in anxiety. He fixed his eyes on his bedroom door, where John was currently comforting Molly and, hopefully, once again saving his ass. Minutes later John emerged from Sherlock's bedroom and Sherlock leapt out of his chair. John raised a brow at him and motioned to him to wait.

"Give her a minute mate, she's reading your letter now and I'm warning you, the mood she's in, it better be bloody Shakespeare… Christ's sake, where the hell is my wife gone?"

Sherlock was tempted to say that she was on her way to Ireland but thought better of it. He filled John in and then fell silent, waiting for Molly to emerge from his bedroom. He mentally reviewed the words he had written to her and wondered if he had done enough to comfort her and convince her to abandon her 'safe house' idea and come to Ireland with him. Inside his bedroom; Molly sat on Sherlock's bed, and, trembling, opened the letter that John had gently persuaded her to read.

Dear Molly,

By the time you read this I shall have left London, and England, permanently. Recent events and actions of mine have necessitated this enforced exile. It was this option; or incarceration Molly, so for me there really was no choice. (Anyway, Mycroft knows that there is not a prison in the world that could contain me for any amount of time; and, to be fair; I have already put him in an impossible position without the further embarrassment of a jailbreak). Therefore I have agreed to his conditions. I shall be working for MI6 in Eastern Europe for the next six months or so; what happens to me after that is indeterminable. One thing has been made very clear however; I can never return home. I am sorry Molly; for a great many things. I am sorry that I did not say goodbye to you in person. I am sorry for all the other words I never said to you. Things between us have been…delicate recently. For this I take full responsibility. But I meant what I said to you that fateful night when you risked all to help me. You do count Molly. Know that, and know that you hold a very special place in my life, my heart, and my Mind Palace. Molly, you are the woman who saved me. You are the woman who 'sees' me and, despite that fact, still cares for me anyway.

I have held myself aloof from you Molly, for some time now, cognitive of the danger it would hold for you should the wrong people determine us to be more than colleagues. I regret that now; deeply regret it; for I know that I have hurt you, and us, by doing so. Yes I do say 'us' Molly. I have contemplated an 'us' for a long while now but as I've said, people in my life, associated with me, have been targeted by my enemies before and I was determined to keep you safe and under the radar. If that meant keeping you at arm's length, as it were, then so be it. My impending exile has altered the need for that now and I find the idea of never seeing you again unacceptable and abhorrent. I also find myself in the unusual position of being uncertain whether you still hold me in the same affection that I believe you once did. If you do, Dr. Molly Hooper, could I make one more request of you? Will you meet me in Prague, in eight weeks' time and spend some days with me there? Mycroft will assist you in the finer details nearer the time. If you find that you cannot grant this request please know that I understand completely. Whatever you decide Molly, thank you. Thank you for your friendship and for your constant faith in me. Please forgive me and, above all, be happy.

Love Sherlock.

Minutes later the door opened slowly and Molly stood, clutching his letter in her hand and leaning on the doorframe, as if for support. Sherlock stood as if frozen and waited for her to speak. Her features were set and inscrutable and for once, he could not read her. She met his eyes.

"Could you come here please Sherlock? I'd like to speak to you". She turned then and walked back into the bedroom. Taking a deep breath; Sherlock followed her and closed the door behind him.


	4. The Irish Connection - Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Sherlock watched as Molly paced up and down the floor of his bedroom. Her injured wrist was still cradled in a sling, where she had also slipped his letter, and his heart clenched at the visible evidence of her most recent distress. Her luminous brown eyes which usually twinkled so brightly at him were now red-rimmed. She looked exhausted and in pain. Guilt ate away at Sherlock knowing that he was partly to blame for her recent tears. He wanted to comfort her, reassure her and let her rest in his bed, preferably wrapped around him, but there just wasn't time. He had to somehow persuade her to get on a plane with the others and leave the UK with only the clothes she stood up in. It would be hours more before she could rest. He waited her out silently. She finally stopped pacing, and, standing in front of him, she put her good hand on her hip and glared at him.

"Sherlock Bloody Holmes, I seriously do not know whether to kiss you or kill you right now!"

Sherlock did his best not to smirk at the force of her indignation but she caught it and her eyes narrowed warningly in response.

"Well personally speaking Molly I'd much prefer the former; far too many people already queuing up for the latter" he quipped.

Molly hissed in temper.

"Oh you're bloody asking for it now!"

Gripping his jacket lapel with her good hand she pushed him back forcefully against the bedroom door. Pressing her body into his and grabbing the curls at the back of his head for leverage, she pulled his face down and kissed him firmly on the lips. Sherlock, never one to miss an opportunity, wrapped her tightly in his arms and reciprocated in kind. She released his hair and cupped his face instead, stroking his cheekbone with her thumb. Desire, long suppressed by the two of them, took over, and Sherlock deepened the kiss. Molly sighed against his mouth and the sound of her was almost his undoing. It was better than he had ever imagined, kissing Molly, and, stopping briefly only to draw breath, he pulled her back in for more. Eventually, she kissed first his top and then his bottom lip before pulling sharply away from him.

"That, for the record, Sherlock Holmes; is how you say goodbye to 'the woman that counts'. I promise you though, that if you ever do anything like that to me again I will not be choosing the kissing option. Now, John is waiting outside this door and I believe we have a plane to catch".

Sherlock gaped at her in response and she tried to suppress the smile that was lighting up her eyes and illuminating her face. She didn't fool him for a second.

"Noted!" he retorted and, opening the door, he laughed his deep baritone laugh.

"After you Doctor Hooper" he quipped "and please do feel free to initiate further demonstrations whenever you deem it necessary. You know how much I love to learn…"

Molly rolled her eyes but her smile was bright and for the first time in many months, her heart felt light in her chest. As they made their way out of 221B and towards the car behind the MI6 agent, Sherlock and John close once again flanking her on both sides; she felt for Sherlock's letter; safely secured under her injured wrist. He sat in the back seat beside her, and, as the car swept them to the airstrip she leaned towards him, resting her head against his shoulder as he reclaimed her good hand. She caught John's approving grin and smiled back at him. As Sherlock idly stroked her palm with his thumb; Molly wondered to herself how she could have lost everything she possessed and gain her heart's desire all on the same day.

Aoife's private Lear jet was sitting on the runway with the others already waiting on board. Sherlock, Molly, John and the MI5 agent boarded quickly, took their seats and strapped themselves in. Sherlock secured Molly's belt, noting in concern that she was suffering badly from her recent injuries. As the plane took off into the evening sky he checked with John that he had brought his doctor's bag along with him. As soon as the plane levelled off and it was safe to move around, he lowered Molly's seat all the way back so she could recline fully. John gave Molly a shot in the arm of a strong painkiller and she took it without protest. She was really hurting now and was relieved to be able to lie down. Then Sherlock placed his Balstaff coat over her and it covered her like the warmest of blankets. He tucked a stray strand of her hair behind her ear and kissed her softly on her forehead, murmuring to her to go asleep. She curled up and got comfortable. Sherlock knew the flight would only take an hour at most but she badly needed to rest and it was better than nothing. He then took up the file that Aoife had left out for him and started to read. Mary and John smirked knowingly at each other.

"Shut up the pair of you" Sherlock growled, and Mary laughed back at him.

"Sherlock Holmes, if you think you are getting away with kissing our Molly without comment you are sadly mistaken". Sherlock smirked behind the file concealing his face.

"I'll have less of the 'our Molly'... she's my Molly," he muttered, his tone sounding borderline petulant.

Mary snorted in mirth. Molly giggled happily from under his coat and then closed her eyes to try to sleep.

Mycroft and Lestrade sat up in the cockpit with Aoife; with Mycroft acting as co-pilot. Aoife was concerned about Molly's ability to travel, not to mention the late stage of Mary's pregnancy. Mycroft reassured her, explaining that John was more than capable and that it was a low to moderate risk, considering how short the flight time to Dublin is. Aoife nodded in acceptance and then proceeded to brief the Englishmen about the security, private and State, awaiting them on the ground in Dublin. Eyeing Mycroft pointedly she warned him that whatever British agents he had either on route to Ireland or already in situ, he'd better come clean with their details lest they all end up tripping over each other. Mycroft made to deny any such thing but paused at her raised eyebrow. Seeing the sense in her argument, he nodded in admittance and went onto his laptop, sending encrypted files to her direct secure address in the Irish Department of Justice.

"Thank you Mycroft. We really do have to work together. We are going to a secure location; my home, in a fairly remote area of the Wicklow mountains. All surrounding villages are very familiar and the locals are loyal to me. It's the middle of January so tourism will be at a minimum. I will be informed by the locals of any unknown persons, Irish or otherwise, booking into any of the guesthouses, B&B's or hotels within a ten mile radius and they will be scrutinised by our guys. Therefore we must know who your people are. Particularly as they will more than likely have British accents? They will stand out. Therefore, we need to be able to cross them off the suspect list. I will also be informed if any of the locals do not show up for work, school or even Mass or Church. Any change in behaviour will be investigated. Their homes will be thoroughly checked in case they are compromised. This is an area of the country that I can lock down and I intend to do just that. Your brother and his friends will be well protected while he...we, follow the leads we do have and find out where that piece of shit is hiding."

She smiled at him and then focussed on switching connection to Irish air traffic control. Mycroft was contemplating how much he usually disliked working in the field but how the idea of working with Aoife was becoming a very attractive one. She impressed him greatly. He had never before allowed himself to be so completely and guilelessly manipulated, but Aoife Quinn managed it with such inherent charm that he found himself going along with it despite himself. She didn't distract him so much as completely engage him and she was certainly easy on the eye. Lestrade sat silently behind them both, shaking his head in astonishment. That's the two Holmes brothers, succumbing to the undoubted charms of two strong women, and on the same day. He would never have believed it had he not seen it with his own eyes. He pondered how his life had become so intermingled with these two brothers and Sherlock's other friends. He trusted them with his life and he knew they felt the same about him, though Sherlock would never admit it. He touched his inside pocket; checking for his firearm. Without even turning her head Aoife commented,

"I'm aware, Chief Inspector, that you, Mycroft, Mary Watson and the two MI5 agents are currently armed and am giving you all a certain amount of latitude, but the serial numbers of all of all firearms will be checked and listed on arrival. Just so you know…"

Lestrade groaned to himself. Great; he thought wryly, another bloody smartass. Mycroft laughed out loud. That sound unnerved Lestrade more than anything else he'd heard in months. Having cleared their flight path Aoife radioed to her local private airfield on the Wicklow coast. Confirming her flight and landing details she then quipped with the guy on the tower.

"What's the weather like there Pat?"

Oh you know yourself Aoife, its January. It's cold enough here".

Aoife went very still and then quickly responded,

"Oh I suppose so. We'll wrap up warm".

She glanced at Mycroft and he nodded and simply stated,

"Your airfield is compromised".

Changing channels, Aoife alerted the Garda Armed Response Team that there was a live hostage situation at the airfield. She then alerted Baldonnel military airfield, in Dublin West, that she was altering course and would be arriving there imminently. Recognising her plane code and her clearance level, they cleared her flight path and alerted the barracks that their presence was required on the runway to escort the plane in. Troop carriers and military range rovers raced to the airfield. Plan B was live and operational. Sherlock was already in the cockpit following events and Mycroft alerted London of the change of plans. As the jet altered course and approached Baldonnel airfield Mycroft realised, perversely, that he was in his element. This Irish woman was fascinating, certainly, and their mutual adversary, whomever they may be, was sophisticated and resourceful. He caught Sherlock's eye and silently acknowledged with him that 'the game was on'.

A half an hour later the jet taxied to a standstill on the military airfield. The passengers were greeted by a fleet of military vehicles and swiftly transferred to two army Range Rovers for transport to Wicklow. The sun had long set and the weather had turned. Rain and wind lashed the vehicles as they made their way to their final destination, Aoife's manor house in Wicklow County. The security detail opted for the main motorway route, rather than take national roads where an ambush could be more of a threat. Sherlock and John, were becoming more concerned about the welfare of the two women. It was very late in Mary's pregnancy and she was valiantly trying to disguise how tired she was feeling. Molly's rest had been all too brief and she looked beyond exhausted. In the front car, Aoife briefed Mycroft on the latest scene at her private runway. Her two staff had been discovered badly beaten and tied up but their injuries were not life threatening. They were not in a position to be interviewed and were on their way for medical attention. Mycroft relayed the information back to Sherlock. The brothers were uneasy but were confident with the security Aoife had provided and with their performance till now. Within a half hour the motorcade swept through the electronic gates of Aoife's stately Georgian manor house. Surrounded by ten foot high granite walls, it stood on about ten acres of garden with a sweeping tree lined driveway leading up to the front of the house. The gate, driveway, and the entire walled area were floodlit. Sherlock noted with satisfaction at least twelve security staff on the grounds; apparently impervious to the inclement weather. The army unit remained outside the walls of the estate to patrol the perimeter as the gates closed firmly behind the two Range Rovers. He intended to do a more comprehensive security sweep but for now he was content that the party were secure on this estate.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Aoife's house keeper awaited her guests in the huge hall lobby. She informed them of the location of their allocated bedrooms, and that a hot and cold buffet had been prepared for them in the kitchen. Thanking her, Aoife then escorted her guests up to the first floor to their rooms to settle in. John and Mary, Mycroft and Sherlock and Molly were on one side of the great landing with Lestrade's room and Aoife's own bedroom located on the upper level. She looked enquiringly at Sherlock and he swiftly affirmed,

"yes thank you; Molly stays with me". "

Yep; not getting away with that one either Sherlock" Mary quipped, "I'm saving them up".

Sherlock grinned back at her and guiding a blushing Molly into the room, closed the door firmly behind him. The couple glanced around the room and Molly smiled shyly at him.

"Oh it's lovely Sherlock; isn't it?"

He nodded at her in agreement and strode over to the window, pulling the curtains tightly across. Looking at the large king size bed he raised a brow in amusement at Molly, and she blushed again. To distract herself she checked out the large ensuite bathroom and gasped in delight. It was enormous. There was a large stand-alone pedestal bath in the centre of the floor with a more modern wet-room style shower unit at the side. A chaise lounge adorned the left side of the bathroom, almost entirely covered with neatly folded women's sleepwear, underwear and copious amounts of outerwear. Four shoeboxes were stacked at the side. Aoife had been true to her word. Part of Molly was dying to explore the packages but a wave of exhaustion hit her and she badly wanted to bath herself and then collapse into bed. She mentally groaned, trying to figure out how she was even going to undress herself, never mind wash her hair and bath herself with her broken wrist and with her midriff strapped up. Sherlock, as usual, read her concerns. Wordlessly he plugged the bath, ran the water and tipped woody scented lotion into it, distracting himself by watching it as it bubbled rapidly into lather while he considered how best to approach this issue. Turning to face her he watched her as she nervously chewed her bottom lip and avoided meeting his eyes. Well that would not do. He pulled her into his arms again and hugged her into his chest. Molly sank into him and tried to control her racing pulse.

'Oh God', she thought, 'he's really going to do this'.

Taking her face in his large hands, he kissed her gently on the lips and then, releasing her, opened the cuffs of his shirt and rolled up his sleeves slowly, never once breaking eye contact with her.

"Molly, I know we have things to discuss. I know that we are embarking on a new stage in our relationship, but now is not the time for that conversation. We have plenty of time for that later on. For tonight there is a more immediate need. How many times have you patched me up? How many times have you taken care of me, physically and (wincing exaggeratedly) emotionally? You are about to collapse with exhaustion but I am aware that you want, need, to cleanse the horrors of the day from your body. You will be unable to fully relax until you do. Let me help you now Molly, let me take care of you for a change, mm?"

She smiled at him in acquiescence, eyes glistening with unshed tears at his words.

"Alright Sherlock and thank you. I would like to say however, that this is not how I imagined it".

As soon as she spoke the words her left hand flew up to her cover her mouth and she blushed furiously.

"Imagined what?" he replied, eyebrow up and trademark smirk firmly in place.

"Imagined you undressing me for the first time and taking me to bed, you git. You know exactly what I meant!" He erupted in laughter and then stroked her hair.

"When I do that; and believe me woman, I'm looking forward to it immensely, it will indeed be for the first time, because it will be for an entirely different purpose. Now, enough idle chatter, let's get you into the bath". Planting a quick kiss on her forehead he proceeded to do just that.

He removed the sling supporting her broken wrist carefully and smiled as she retrieved his letter from it. He took it from her and briefly left her side to place it on a bedside locker. When he returned to her side Molly turned to him and rested her head against his chest. Adopting as perfunctory a manner as possible, considering the subject at hand, he began to undress her. She moved her limbs limply to assist him, as needed. Her whole body was aching now, the effect of the shot John had given her was wearing off and she bit back a groan of pain. Sherlock's jaw turned rigid as he progressed, because the more her body was revealed to him, the more the severity of her bruising was becoming apparent. Anger simmered and he mentally quashed it, knowing that it wasn't going to help Molly at that moment. He'd sort the culprit out his own way, as soon as possible. He unwrapped the strapping supporting her ribs, and swiftly removed her underwear. He was relieved that Molly didn't get embarrassed or attempt to cover herself, knowing it meant she was comfortable with his administrations, that she trusted him while she was totally exposed to him. It was very easy with her, this caring lark, and he made a mental note to ensure that he was always the one to care for her; for as long as she would let him. He stood back up beside her and tilted her chin up to look at him again.

"For the record Dr Hooper, you are completely stunning. Now hold up your right arm out of the way please".

Molly grinned back at him, chuffed at his compliment. She raised her arm away from her body and wrapped her left arm around his neck. Sherlock scooped her up, lifting her from under her knees and around her waist and lowered her carefully into the bath. She sighed in relief as the warm soapy water washed over her.

"Right; I'll leave you to it for a little while. Do not fall asleep Molly; I'm going downstairs to get you some tea and something to eat. I'll get more painkillers from John too and then I'll be back to wash your hair. Just relax but I mean it now Molly; no sleeping".

Molly mock pouted and then laughed throatily at him.

"..And miss Sherlock Holmes washing my hair, not a bloody chance!"

She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively at him, braver now that she was under the cover of the soapy water. Gripping the side of the bath, she slid down and sank her head under the water. Expecting him to be gone when she re-emerged, she gasped to find his face looming over the bath, wearing a very predatory expression, and waiting for her. Grasping her behind her neck, he loomed down and, oblivious to the water running down her face, kissed her firmly on the lips. She gasped into his mouth and he exploited the opportunity, exploring hers with ruthless efficiency. Molly gripped the back of his head, and, twisting her fingers into his curls, reciprocated in kind. Eventually, she broke away to catch a breath. He rested his forehead against hers and then grinned mischievously at her.

"Just giving you something to think about while I'm gone Molly". With that he strode out of the bathroom. Molly laughed at his retreating back and then slid down slightly to settle comfortably into the warm soapy water.

Sherlock entered the kitchen to find John and Mycroft sitting at the table, helping themselves to generous portions of cottage pie and fresh side salad. Aoife was at the doorway into the pantry, pulling out a couple of trays. She gazed at him that sad expression again, tracing every nuance of his face. He tilted his head at her enquiringly and she smiled ruefully back at him.

"I'm sorry Sherlock. I will get used to looking at you but the similarity between you and Oisín is quite startling" she explained sadly.

"I saw his photo in the file and I agree; it's a very close likeness; he was very handsome" he quipped deliberately, in an attempt to distract her.

Aoife began to laugh. John rolled his eyes and asked after Molly. Sherlock told him that she would need another painkiller to help her settle and John agreed to attend to her after his meal. Taking the tray from Aoife Sherlock piled brown bread on a plate and slathered it with butter. Then he poured some of the hot soup from the stove into a bowl and made a pot of tea. He sighed and poured another bowl of soup, knowing that Molly would notice he hadn't eaten anything himself. Mycroft smirked gleefully and opened his mouth to comment.

"Do shut up Mycroft, or I'll share childhood stories with Aoife". Everyone laughed; including Mycroft and then he held his brothers gaze.

"I'm very glad that Dr Hooper is ok Sherlock; I hold her in very high regard, as it happens. That women is unfailingly loyal, to you especially, but also to her country and she can keep a secret better than most of MI5!".

Surprised; Sherlock nodded at him and cleared his throat.

Right well, I'll just get Molly settled and I'll be back down. Shall we say in about an hour and a half?"

That sorted, he lifted the laden tray and returned to Molly. He knocked on the bathroom door, entered and cleared his throat to alert her to his presence. Molly smiled at him in welcome and lifted the shampoo bottle.

"I do need your help again Sherlock; sorry".

He clucked dismissively at her and her eyes widened as he started to unbutton his shirt. She gulped nervously and averted her eyes shyly but he just laughed again at her.

"No point in my getting soaked Molly; is there? Now, can you sit up"?

He moved behind her and smoothed her wet hair away from her face. Pouring some shampoo into his hand he began to massage it into her scalp. Molly's head was tender and sore where her assailant had grabbed her by the hair but Sherlock touch was gentle. She slumped into his hands and closed her eyes. He rinsed her head clean of the shampoo and quickly lathered conditioning lotion into her hair.

"How are you doing Molly?" he asked her softly. She sighed deeply.

"Truthfully Sherlock, I'm not sure which way is up right now. This morning I left my flat as normal and went to work. Since then I've been attacked, broken my wrist, lost my flat and everything I own in an arson attack and then fled my homeland. On the plus side I was rescued and protected by a group of good men and women; one man in particular that captured my attention and my heart a long time ago, that's you by the way, said man is now washing my hair, sans shirt, (not complaining about that, to be clear), and with whom, in the last few hours of his company, I've felt more intimacy, more cherished, than with any man I've ever known. So yeah, I'm feeling completely overwhelmed, exhausted, in serious pain again and at the same time, ridiculously happy".

Sherlock didn't reply immediately. He rinsed the last residue of lotion out of her hair and motioned her to stand up and only then said,

"So, pretty uneventful day then?"

She smiled at him in response. He grabbed one of the bath towels that had been warming on the radiator and held it out wide for her. She stood up in the bath and he wrapped her up tightly in it. He swiftly dried the excess water from her hair and scooping her up again, he carried her across the floor and placed her sitting upright against the headboard of the bed.

"I think it is probably best not to think about it any further tonight Molly; let's get you dry and fed; the soup is getting cold."

Ignoring her protests he fed her the soup and sipped some of his own. He poured the tea for both of them. When they finished eating he re-strapped her ribs and retrieved the new nightwear Aoife's staff had procured for Molly. The coffee coloured silk pyjamas fit her like a glove and, cocking one eyebrow up mischievously; he grinned at her in approval.

"Remind me to thank Aoife again; will you?" She playfully cuffed him on the chest and then let her hand linger there.

"Did I mention that you're pretty stunning yourself Sherlock?" He smiled at her and gathered her up again in his arms.

"It was undoubtedly implied, Molly mine" he responded and then lowered his head to kiss her again. As the heat rose between them he suddenly and abruptly pulled his head away, caught her face in his hands and locked eyes with her, stroking her cheekbone tenderly. "John's timing is as impeccable as ever" he grumbled and ten seconds later John knocked on their bedroom door.

Sherlock called for him to enter without shifting his gaze from Molly. He tugged Molly back tightly into his arms when she went to move away. Molly decided she couldn't care less what John saw. She was just as reluctant to break away from him. She wrapped her good arm around his waist and gently stroked his back. Chin to his chest, she raised her eyes to lock on his as John entered the room. John walked in and stopped dead at the intensely tender scene in front of him. What struck him the most was that what should have looked incongruous and extraordinary, considering this was Mr. 'Married to My Work', actually looked natural and just...well, perfect. He cleared his throat.

Well, I do hate to break this up but if I could have your attention for a few minutes Molly; I'll get you comfortable and then you can get back to um…whatever". She giggled and tried to move out of Sherlock's embrace but he was having none of it. He continued to hold fast onto her; arms tight around her waist.

"John, you can give Molly a shot from here; it can't be that difficult, surely?"

"Sherlock…just..no" John replied.

Sighing exaggeratedly, Sherlock scooped Molly up, carried her over to the bed and sat her gently down on it with her back supported by the headboard. Then he propped some pillows behind her. Sitting at her feet he began to idly stroke her ankle. He found himself, to his own amazement, hugely reluctant to break physical contact with her. No wonder John was looking at him like he'd grown two heads. Things between him and Molly had shifted rapidly and fundamentally. Sherlock realised that Molly wasn't the only one who needed some time to process the tumultuous events of this day. Only this morning he was reconciled to his permanent exile from his home, family, friends and country and to the inevitable conclusion of that exile. Four minutes in the air and he was recalled to England. The following hour or so until he found Molly safe, (if not entirely well), in St Bart's, was truly the most afraid he'd ever been. From then on really the transition in their relationship had been rapid. He'd touched her more this day then he'd touched anyone willingly since he was a child in his mother's arms. He'd also decided to invite her to move into Baker Street with him, considering the loss of her home, and that he would, and more importantly, could, allow her completely into his life and his heart. Who was he kidding? She'd been in his heart for a long time now, much longer than he'd admitted to himself until recently. Molly had been his lifeline while he had been 'dead'. During the darkest of times during the two years it had taken to dismantle Moriarty's vast criminal 'web' he had always taken solace in thoughts of her, of her luminous brown eyes looking at him so guilelessly, with such unwavering devotion. With the exception of his brother; she was the only one who had never doubted him, not for a second. Her steadfast loyalty and confidence in him had sustained him through those dark hours. He had always known she'd fancied him, was attracted to him but hadn't taken it all that seriously until the night of the fall. Since then he'd begun to realise the value of such unwavering faith, loyalty and love.

John administered to Molly without further comment, giving her a shot to subdue her pain and help her to sleep. When he finished he confirmed his impending meeting with Sherlock and then left the couple alone. Molly's eyes began to droop and climbing under the covers she scooted down in the bed. She drew the covers back and gestured to the space beside her.

"Will you lie beside me until I go asleep Sherlock? I know you have to meet the others but...will you? He climbed in beside her and taking her in his arms; laid her head on his chest.

"Go asleep now Molly. I do have to leave for a while but would you be upset if I reassume this position later?" She sighed contently.

"I'll be upset if you don't Sherlock"  she replied, and hugging him to her; she finally fell asleep. When he was satisfied that she was deeply asleep Sherlock opened his laptop and retrieved a file that he'd compiled on a whim some time ago. He selected the required online destination and forwarded the file highlighting his order as urgent. Then he proceeded down to the kitchen to meet with the others.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Mycroft, of course, was sitting at the top of the table, laptop open, with Aoife at his side. They were deep in conversation. John and Lestrade were sipping mugs of tea and chatting amongst themselves. Sherlock took a seat beside Aoife and cleared his throat.

"Sorry to keep you all waiting; let the 'War Cabinet' meeting begin."

Mycroft nodded and proceeded to brief the group on the intelligence gathered to date. It wasn't much beyond what they'd already discovered during the Moriarty case and the locating the source of the transmission earlier that day. Sherlock nodded at him and then commented coolly

"I am far more interested in the information that I believe is here in Ireland. Aoife, I want to know every damn thing about him. Where did he come from, who are his family, parents, siblings? I want addresses, names, schools, friends, and lovers, everybody who ever had dealings with him. Do you have any information like that? If not, we must get it immediately. I want people knocking on the doors of all known associations here in Ireland and in the UK. Mycroft can sort the UK trail but we need his Irish background history from you Aoife". She sighed in exasperation.

"I know Sherlock; I've tried everything. I just keep hitting a dead end. He was registered with the Irish college all those years ago as James Moriarty but the records of his social security number were missing; his personal public service number as its' known here or PPS for short. Once I have that number I can track his every move; literally from birth. With it I can discover every address he's ever lived at, every property he's ever bought or sold, every school he ever attended, his medical files, his passport applications, children's allowance payments to his parents, and information on any siblings, births marriages and deaths in his extended family. Without it I've been stymied. Have you any idea how many James Moriarty's there are registered here? I do; there are tens of thousands. I've managed to track almost all of them. His age is also a factor. As you know, tens of thousands of Irish emigrated for work in the last five years due to the recession. Add to that our passion for travel and the job became almost impossible.

Almost?" Sherlock queried.

"Yes almost" she grinned back at him, "you don't miss much; do you? I've managed to narrow it down to 456 possibilities. I've eliminated the others through date of birth, and data matches on our systems. I was just about to arrange with Mycroft a cross correlation of PPS data. When Irish or other EU citizens register for a social security number in the UK or any other EU country they must provide their Irish PPS number for validation. It prevents double claiming of welfare in two European jurisdictions. We have a particularly co-operative checking system with the British because we share a border".

Mycroft nodded in agreement. It was a strong and definitive line of enquiry. John looked quizzically at Sherlock.

"What's the point of all this early background information Sherlock? What am I missing?" Sherlock's jaw set and his eyes glinted with fury. He stood up and began to pace the kitchen.

"For too long he has threatened my friends, my family and now he's hurt my...Molly. He put his hands on her and he harmed her. He's long threatened to 'burn the heart out of me' and he almost succeeded today. I want to do the same to him now. I want to find his 'loved ones', his family. I want to go to his home, his hearth and make my presence felt. He's held all the cards for too long. Let's co-ordinate now, and send police and Gardaí to every known relative, friend, and business associate of his. Search their homes, their premises and arrest them for the slightest misdemeanour. Blitz them. Hit them at exactly the same time in the UK and Ireland and do it immediately. He likes to be on the news? Well, let us accommodate him. Let's put these raids on every bloody news outlet from here to Timbuktu". He paused then and grimaced.

"There's something else we need to do though and we need it done tonight." He addressed Aoife and Mycroft directly then. "Our respective parents, John's sister and her girlfriend, and Lestrade's ex wife and children have to be moved into protective custody. Moriarty uses family and loved ones as leverage. It's how he operates. Both Mary and Molly's only remaining family are in this house". The athmosphere in the room grew quiet and sombre then. Mycroft and Aoife made the brief calls required and returned to the table. Mycroft groaned exaggeratedly into his hands.

"Mother is not going to be pleased Sherlock and I'm telling you now; you are the one that is bringing her to the next bloody musical. This is your case after all!" Sherlock froze in horror and then grinned like a Cheshire cat.

"Oh no I won't Mycroft. I just have to tell her about Molly. I'll be running on brownie points until next Christmas!".

The room erupted with laughter; enjoying the brother's antics. Sherlock smiled at his friends but Moriarty or whomever this was; was pressing on his mind and he re focussed his attention on the room:

"He's here in Ireland though. I can feel it. Run that check with Mycroft and Aoife; by all means but there's something we're missing. There's always something".

Mycroft went into deep thought. Sherlock was not the only one in the family with a 'mind palace'. He rapidly delved through everything he had on Moriarty. He raced through his behaviour patterns; his love of games and word plays. Mycroft's head shot up suddenly and he locked eyes with Sherlock. The two brothers appeared to hold a silent conversation. The others looked on in bewilderment.

"Oh!, of course! Sherlock exclaimed.

"Elementary!" preened Mycroft. Aoife gaped at them and then raised a questioning eyebrow to John and Lestrade.

"Yes; bloody annoying isn't it? John replied to her, "They do that all the time!". Mycroft and Sherlock smirked in tandem.

"Shall I?" Mycroft parried. "

Be my guest" replied Sherlock. The eldest Holmes smiled then at Aoife.

"How many official languages are there in Ireland Aoife?" She frowned at him in confusion.

"Two, Irish and English; but you know that…Oh my God!"

Realisation dawned on her and she dropped her head in her hands; groaning loudly. John and Lestrade shrugged at each other. Then John jumped up too. He was a frequent visitor to Dublin, especially for the international rugby matches. He told the others of a pub conversation he'd enjoyed with some Dubliners on his last visit. They'd informed him that although Irish (Gaelic) is an official language it is not widely spoken; except in the Gaeltacht areas. That being said there has been a recent upsurge in interest and a phenomenal growth in Irish language schools in the country. That upsurge has only occurred in the last decade or so. More importantly, he recalled them telling him that since the foundation of the Irish State, names could be legally registered in English or; in their Irish language equivalent.

"Séamus" Aoife murmured. "Séamus O'Muireartaigh, I never searched under that name. Christ; I'm so bloody stupid. How could I have not thought of that?" Sherlock shook his head at her in disagreement.

"Because it never came up. He never used it or showed any interest in his Irish ethnicity. Why would you think of it? We didn't until now; Mycroft and I, and we're supposed to be the genius's in this room. Let's get started now though on searching for both names, in the UK and Ireland, using his approximate age as a further filter and see what we can unearth. I need everything; especially his family information. It is possible that Moriarty himself is dead; and only a family member or former lover would be so invested in avenging him. The same principal applies however. We are hitting back; hard; we will end this now; for Molly and for Oísin".

Aoife smiled in sad acknowledgement at him, touched by his inclusion of her brother, and then responded firmly:

"One thing though Sherlock; I saw him, he was as close to me as you are. I have absolutely no doubt about it. It was him".

"Ok then Aoife," Sherlock answered, "Then run an additional search. Look for twin boys."

Aoife nodded in agreement and invited Mycroft to join her in the study where they could utilise the secure technical equipment to begin their searches. After they left Lestrade, Sherlock and John continued to strategize. Aoife would set up a meeting in Garda Headquarters, along with Lestrade and Mycroft coordinate the raids. Sherlock and John would be responsible for chasing up the family background leads as soon as they were discovered by Aoife and Mycroft. Sherlock intended to visit the locked down warehouse at first light. He hoped Molly felt up to accompanying him to the scene of the broadcast. He had long valued her assistance and expertise; not just in pathology. She was also highly proficient in forensics. Anyway he wanted her secure with him whenever possible or if not; then with Mycroft, Mary, John or Aoife. He made a mental note to arrange access to the Garda Forensic Lab for her. He considered the progress of the last few hours. Sherlock was confident that Mycroft and Aoife would be successful in their trace. He was determined to approach this new strand of the Moriarty case in a more conventional way. He had succeeded in dismantling the consulting criminal's international network but Moriarty (or the Moriarty's) was inventive and resourceful. He, or (as Sherlock was now more inclined to believe) his sibling/s, was/were trying for a comeback. They would not expect Sherlock to take the conventional approach; one he had so often disparaged and avoided. He was therefore, quite happy to utilise the combined might and resources of the British and Irish Governments and any other international police agencies necessary to stamp them into the ground. They should never have laid a hand on Molly Hooper. Bidding John goodnight he pulled on his Balstaff coat to brave the elements. Then he left the house to do a security circuit of the grounds. He was pleased with the result. In fifteen minutes he came across three separate patrols. Each patrol discovered him and checked his credentials carefully. He did have a slight concern about a solid wooden door built into the wall at the back of the grounds which led to the private beach at the rear of the house. It was a potential weakness. He texted Aoife and requested her to post someone there permanently. She agreed and then immediately texted him again. The guard outside Sherlock and Molly's room had just indicated sounds of a minor concern emanating from the room. The female occupant was experiencing a disturbed sleep. Sherlock took off back to the house at a sprint.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I just want to take the opportunity to thank all those kind people who took the time to comment or leave kudos. It surprised me a bit; how encouraging it is. Now.. on with the story.

Chapter 7

Molly woke up with a start. Her heart was hammering in her chest and there were tears on her face. She momentarily panicked as she couldn't get her bearings or find the bed side lamp. As her surroundings became familiar to her she began to calm down. She'd just had a nightmare. Albeit a bloody terrifying one where she was being chased by vicious men and there was no-one to help her. She groped her way along to the locker and switched on the bedside lamp. Wondering where Sherlock was she picked up her mobile. It was low on battery and she had no charger with her. It was still plugged into a socket in her office. She began to text Sherlock but then she stopped herself. She shouldn't be bothering him. He'd told her he was working with the others on the case and he'd be back later. She groaned in discomfort. Every part of her was aching. Her wrist was throbbing and she felt completely out of sorts. She checked the time. It was only 2:00am. Her mind wandered back involuntarily to her assault earlier. She couldn't help wondering what their intent was, although she could certainly hazard an educated guess. She shuddered and pulled her knees up tightly to her chest. After she'd got her breathing under control and, wanting a distraction, she picked up Sherlock's letter and began to read it again. A few minutes later the bedroom door opened and Sherlock came striding purposely through it eyes searching her out. She exhaled in relief at the sight of him. He closed the door and for some seconds he just ran his eyes over her doing that scanning thing she was so familiar with. She smiled weakly at him then. Returning the smile he took off his coat, jacket and shoes and ruffled the rain water out of his hair. Then he climbed into the bed beside her and gathered her up in his arms.

"You had a nightmare and you woke up in a distressed state. it took you some seconds to recognise your surroundings. You picked up your phone to contact me but then you chose not to. Instead; you took up my letter and reread it for solace. Why did you not call me Molly? Isn't that a given? That one's significant other is a provider of comfort when required?"

Molly stared at him in astonishment; tears pooling in her eyes. She was completely blown away at his words. He had those adorable crease lines across his brow that appeared when he was confused or indignant. Those bloody beautiful bow lips of his were threatening the beginnings of a spectacular pout. Then she realised that over the course of this eventful day Sherlock had made a rapid mental and emotional adjustment to..well them...and was genuinely confused by her reactions. She emitted a low laugh. Of course he bloody had! He's Sherlock Holmes. He'd made up his mind about them and that was that. Sherlock sighed exaggeratedly.

"Right" he said "you're crying and laughing at the same time. I don't understand. Please explain?," he admonished her, with the threatened pout now firmly in place.

Molly reached up to cup his face, drawing him down to her and whispered in his ear.

"This is one of those instances, my..love; where a demonstration is more appropriate. You do remember your directive from earlier today?"

Then she kissed him, firmly and deeply, and for a very long time. Afterwards she began to softly explain to him that she was just adjusting to his actually being her 'significant other' and that they had not set out the boundaries and parameters of their relationship as yet. She hadn't wanted to disturb him when he was working if it wasn't an emergency. That way he'd know it was work related or important if she did contact him. Sherlock tutted at her dismissively.

"And what if I want to just talk to you Molly, eh? Or you feel like you want to check in with me; hear my voice? We both know how much you like my voice Dr Hooper.." he drawled playfully into her ear.

Molly giggled at him then and snuggled in tighter.

"Oh Sherlock", she replied, "You can call me anytime you like. How about this? We call each other whenever we like and if we can answer, we will, or, if not, we will call back later?".

"Agreed" he responded, running a strand of her silky hair through his fingers. "While we're in relationship negotiations Molly; will you agree to not cut your hair short, ever?" Molly snorted with laughter.

"Absolutely not Sherlock Holmes! However, I will agree to consult you before said haircut as long as you agree to do the same. Those curls of yours stay!" Sherlock sighed heavily. "

Fine, agreed. Wait though!" he exclaimed, "What if it's for a case?" Molly adopted her best 'considering' pose. "

Only if absolutely necessary!".

They both laughed and then she asked him to brief her on the meeting. He filled her in and enquired whether she felt up to coming with him to the warehouse early in the morning. Molly readily agreed, delighted to be making herself useful. They both knew she should really be resting her wrist but she promised to wear the sling and organise with John and Aoife to have a permanent cast put on it by the next afternoon. She stifled a deep yawn. Sherlock shucked down in the bed to lie flat and tugged her gently down to follow. He turned off the light and as she lay her head on his chest; she emitted a contented sigh. They both lay silently for some minutes and then, as he stroked her back he cleared his throat.

"As a matter of interest Molly; regarding my letter; you never did say if you would have come to meet me in Prague..". Molly smiled into his chest. "

Oh Sherlock; don't you know? I would follow you to the ends of the earth".

Sherlock momentarily froze and then gathered her a little tighter to himself. As she closed her eyes to sleep he smiled broadly into the darkness and then disappeared into his mind palace. He'd sleep later.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Mycroft and Aoife settled into the study and, sitting beside her, he watched her as she trolled through the myriad of passwords and encryptions required to provide her with access to the secure State servers. She worked swiftly and soon had access to the social security database. She emitted a laugh and without turning her head she said,  "you can memorise my passwords all you like Mycroft Holmes, I'll be changing them as soon as we're finished!".

Biting back a smirk, Mycroft replied, "Ms Quinn; I'm wounded."

Turning around then to look at him she said nothing but raised two sceptical eyebrows and grinned at him.

"I have a file on you, Mycroft Holmes!" Rolling his eyes he smirked back at her.

"Ditto, Aoife Quinn!" and she laughed out loud. Sobering then, she leaned over and took his right hand in both of hers; much to his astonishment.

"Joking aside Mycroft, the mammoth work you've continued to put in to secure and reinforce The Good Friday Agreement has not gone unnoticed here. We are well aware that along with our people here and in the North, that thanks to your continued efforts with successive Governments, on both Islands, a new generation of young people, north and south, are now studying 'the troubles' in their history class".

Mycroft felt his chest constrict. He was rarely taken by surprise but this woman had just astounded him.

"It was hardly just me Aoife;" He replied. "heaven's above! The number of people invested in the continued success of Anglo Irish relations is vast; you included. I agree on one point though; it's a test case in peace agreements. A template used all over the world. Testament to what can be achieved with the right team in place and the will to succeed". He tilted his head contemplatively then and squeezing her hand, he smiled at her. "Not unlike our present situation; albeit on a smaller scale and in a completely different context". She smiled at that.

"It still required saying Mycroft; so thank you". Maintaining her grip on his hand she leaned over and planted a kiss on his cheek. Then, releasing it; she turned back to her laptop.

"Right;" he said, clearing his throat. "Enough of that. I'm not going to start UK searches until we see how you get on first. I don't believe he used the Irish version of his name in my country. It would have presented too many difficulties for him and drawn too much attention. So, the first 'breadcrumb' as it were, will have to come from you. I suggest we leave your outstanding 'James Moriarty' names for now and start a fresh search for 'Seamús' instead?"

Aoife nodded in agreement and set to work. Leaving her to it he got back on his mobile and sent instructions to his PA who was waiting in MI6 to hear from him. He arranged for the most senior members of the police forces of Scotland, Wales, NI and England to be in attendance at the top secret meeting in Garda Headquarters scheduled for lunchtime tomorrow. Today, actually, he mused, considering the time. He had every confidence that they would be ready to brief them and plan the blitz in complete secrecy. Mycroft loved this part of an assignment, the feeling of closing in on his prey. Especially when himself and Sherlock were totally in sync, rather than at loggerheads. The past number of years had changed his younger brother. He'd grown up a little, despite his assassination of that loathsome press mogul. Mycroft acknowledged ruefully that he would have done the very same thing to protect Sherlock, and he was well aware that Sherlock loved John Watson like a brother. This was a red letter day really for this motley crew, himself included. Just that morning he was bidding his errant young brother goodbye and sending him off to exile and death. Although he'd absolutely no intention of letting him die; he hadn't quite figured out how to prevent it, as yet. Instead, he was here with him, safe for now in Ireland.

The broadcasting of the Moriarty gif had been timely and he wondered if their adversary's hand had been forced by Sherlock's exile. If so that was to their advantage. The abduction of Molly; violent as it was, appeared roughshod, rushed, and perhaps it was. It was entirely likely that their plan had been pushed forward, it was quite obvious too that Sherlock was their real target and he was in danger, again. So too now, was his pathologist. It was appallingly obvious that they intended to torture and then kill her in order to destroy his younger brother. Mycroft determined that they would never get another chance to harm that woman again. He frowned ruefully and wondered if he'd ever stop worrying about Sherlock. With the added complication of Dr Hooper now appearing to be part of the equation, Sherlock was more vulnerable. Molly would have to have the same level of protection as their parents and Sherlock would have to allow an increased level of security in Baker St. now too. Provisional to his exile being rescinded, of course, but if the outcome of this case was to be as Mycroft expected; a reprieve for Sherlock was a certainty. He knew that Sherlock would accept the change in security for Baker Street. He was well able to defend himself but Molly was not. He sighed to himself and sent those additional security instructions to Anthea in London. A lot rode on the successful outcome of this assignment but what he'd just said to Aoife was correct. The right team were in place and together with them and the combined skills of both himself and Sherlock, well, Mycroft felt a rush of exhilaration at the prospect of what could be achieved here. If part of that exhilaration had anything to do with the presence of the extraordinary and beautiful Irishwoman at his side; he was not yet prepared to admit it yet, well, not out loud anyway.

Barely five minutes later, Aoife exclaimed "I'm in now. I just have to put in the filters, age, gender, and see what comes up. Oh my God! There's only three 'Seamús O Muircheartaigh's!" She pressed print and extracted the A4 printout. Mycroft found himself holding his breath. Then she keyed in the PPS number first on her printout list. She scrolled down to family details to discover that he was an only child. Moving on she keyed in the next number. 'Deceased', aged five. With her heart galloping in her chest she keyed in the final number on her list. "Oh Mycroft; we've got him! She turned to look at him, her eyes brimming with emotion. "Sherlock was right. Twins, Seamús and Seán, James and John, and they have a younger sister; Sinéad. I'm pulling their PPS numbers now. Oh look! parents deceased; and on the same date. We'll have to look into that..lets see, before they died the family moved house six times, that's quite a lot. I wonder why? The first move was from Kerry to Dublin, when the twins were twelve. I bloody bet they started to act up then. Eight schools Mycroft! eight; except little sis. She went to a very exclusive boarding school in Dublin and stayed for the duration. Did their parents move her away from the influence of her brothers? The twins were twenty when their parents died. 'Seamús' was given guardianship over Sinead, as she was still considered a minor. Jesus! the irony! Let's see; from there she went on to Trinity College and achieved a masters degree in Drama and Theatre studies, graduating with honours. Aoife paused then and keyed in the PPS of the twin brothers. "Right, there's nothing here from after their parents died. No college, in Ireland anyway, and their last address matches the last address of their parents. I need to come out of this now and go into the land and property register. We should get more there. Also, I have to check the businesses registered under all their names..." Mycroft reached over and touched her shoulder.

"Take a breath Aoife. We have the keys. Now we have a lot of doors to open. Give me their PPS numbers. It's time for the searches to begin in the UK too. Well done. We're on to them now. They were arrogant enough to assume we would continue to miss the language issue, the Irish connection. Now stop for a minute and pour me a drink. It's going to be a long night". Aoife laughed. "

I'm going to open my best bottle of Midletons for you, Mycroft Holmes. Here's the numbers. You send them off to London while I'm doing that". He grinned at her.

"Yes, bossy boots", he retorted and she blushed.

"Oh hush! I'm excited. Are you going to tell Sherlock?"

Mycroft considered it and decided not to. Molly needed him at the moment and there would be more to report in the morning. As they sipped at their whiskey and ran their searches throughout the night the extent of the Moriarty empire was slowly uncovered. They found an extensive property portfolio in the Republic of Ireland and all over the UK, Channel Islands, Jersey, Malta, Switzerland and in the USA. All properties were registered under legal, tax compliant companies that further investigations and complex traces showed to be registered under the Irish versions of their names. At four in the morning; they decided to leave the paper chase up to the intelligence agencies. It was just too big for them both to investigate. As they both said goodnight and retired to their rooms for a couple of hours sleep; dedicated and diligent security officers in Dublin and London methodically unravelled the labyrinth of bank accounts, properties and known associates that encompassed the Moriarty family business.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Molly awoke to Sherlock looming over her; gently stroking her cheek. He'd pulled back the curtains and the low winter sunlight streamed into the bedroom, illuminating his face. Her heart swelled in her chest and she sucked in a breath. He was just so bloody beautiful. Reading her perfectly he rolled his eyes at her. She laughed at him and cupped his face in her hand. "Hello" she murmured softly.

"Hello yourself, Sleeping Beauty" he replied; planting a quick kiss on her lips, "I hate to rush you Molly but we've got lots to do. Come on now, up and at em!" Sherlock was already freshly showered and dressed and she wondered if he's slept. She scrutinised him then. He was a hive of barely repressed energy. The fingers of one hand were strumming rapidly over her hip.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, "they found them; didn't they? brilliant! That was bloody fast. Here, help me up!". Shaking her head fully awake she sat up gingerly, trying to suppress a wince of pain. Her whole body was stiff and sore and her wrist was throbbing mercilessly. He saw, of course, and frowned. Taking her bad arm by the elbow he examined her wrist. The swelling had receded and it was time for a hard cast.

"Maybe you should stay here with John and Mary, Molly. They're starting background searches on the Moriarty siblings. There's two. A twin brother and a younger sister, as I predicted. You could help them". Molly frowned at him in response.

"No chance Sherlock Holmes. I'd be far more useful with you. Now, pick me out something to wear from those boxes!" Sherlock chuckled and couldn't resist pulling her in for a kiss. "I feel it's only appropriate to mention that I find 'Bossy Molly' very sexy" he growled into her ear.

"That's probably just as well" she sniggered. Then, kneeling up in the bed, she wrapped her arm around his neck and hugged him. Sherlock's heart skipped a beat at the spontaneous display of affection. He scooped her up in his arms and, sitting down on the bed he sat her on his lap, wrapped her tight into him and nuzzled into her neck. There was a lot he wanted to say to her, express to her but he needed time to formulate the words, get them right. The way she was gripping his body into her indicated that she had a pretty good idea. He felt a tear against his cheek and he pulled away in alarm. Anxiously he searched her face.

"Happy tears? he enquired.

"Oh God yes" she replied, and kissed him. "Now; what am I wearing? Come on Mr Consulting Detective, you're distracting me and we have a case!"

He laughed and pointed to the end of the bed. He'd preselected an outfit from the boxes in the bathroom. She sighed and indicated that she'd need his help again to dress. He tugged her pyjamas down her hips and tossed them on the bed. He reached for the black skinny jeans he'd picked out and pulled them up her legs. She stood up and eased them up over her hips, struggling a bit with one hand. "Bloody Hell" she grumbled, "what size are these anyway?".

"The right size Molly, not two sizes too big like you usually wear." He responded as he zipped her up and closed the button. They hugged her figure and fit her perfectly. Impatient now she pulled off her pyjama top and reached for her bra. She stopped short as she noticed he had suddenly gone very still and then a wry smirk appeared on his face. He raised a brow at her and she blushed to her roots.

"Oh stop that you and help me get this on. I can't do it with one hand!" He chuckled and reached for the garment.

"Not sure I can do it with two.." he quipped. He slipped it on her and fastened it at the back. He dropped a quick kiss on he shoulder and then pulled a black tee shirt over her head and gently fed her arms through, pulling it down to her hips. Warm woollen thin black socks followed and then he pulled a burnt orange coloured woollen jumper over her head and once again fed her arms carefully through the sleeves. The warm autumnal colour suited her, picking up the natural copper highlights in her hair. The garment fitted her perfectly, hugging her curves and Molly caressed the fabric.

"Gosh Sherlock, I think this is cashmere, it feels so soft. Is it too tight though?" He smiled at her reassuringly.

"It's fits you perfectly Molly. You have a wonderful figure which you too often choose to hide under bulky, oversized clothes. I understand why when you're working on slicing up dead bodies but perhaps it's become a habit?. I could care less either way, but this does looks stunning on you. Wait a minute."

Reaching for the knee high, riding style boots he put them on her and zipped them up. They were the traditional two toned, black with a two inch border strip of tan on the top and they hugged her calves to the knee. He took her by the hand and led her to the full length mirror. "Do you see what I see?" He asked her, standing close behind her and holding her hips. Molly leaned back into his chest and really looked at herself. She barely recognised the sophisticated young woman reflected back at her. Then she beamed from ear to ear and nodded silently at him. He smiled back at her through the mirror and taking her good hand in his, they headed for the kitchen.

The others were all already there at various stages of breakfast. Mycroft and Aoife's heads were close together and they were conversing animatedly. Mycroft jerked his head back sharply at their entrance and Sherlock smirked with glee. Good God!, the man was blushing. Oh excellent! Aoife stood, smiling, to greet them and helped Molly with getting breakfast. Molly shoved two slices of toast into Sherlocks hand and he took them without protest. Then Sherlock sat beside his brother, grinned at him and rubbed his hands together with glee, as Lestrade joined them and sat down. Mycroft rolled his eyes and ignoring his brothers provocations, he recounted the discoveries of the night. They had plenty of identified targets for the multinational sting and it was already in motion. It was rare that an operation as large as this covering so many jurisdictions would happen so swiftly but speed was of the utmost importance. Their greatest threat would be leaks and informants. For that reason, none of the teams' members would be told of their targets until the very last minute. All officers on both Islands would then be told that their mobile activity would be monitored for the duration of the operation. It was controversial but the majority would understand. Anyone who didn't agree was free to stand down. All relevant police commissioners were on route to Dublin and security was as tight as it would be for an international head of state. The Taoiseach, the British Prime Minister and the relevant security ministers would be informed, but that was it. Exactly thirty eight business premises and twenty two private residences were to be raided, simultaneously, at 4:00am the very next morning. At exactly the same time; the Irish Criminal Assets Bureau would freeze every bank account the agents had uncovered during the night, with the full cooperation of the City of London. Catching Aoife's eye then and holding her gaze he ended with a short statement. "It's codename is 'Operation Oísín".

Sherlock was impatient to get to the warehouse and Molly, noticing, threw back the end of her tea. John administered what he warned was the last shot she was getting until she had the cast in place and she promised she'd be back soon to comply. Two burly Irish Gardaí appeared at the kitchen door. Their escort had arrived. Sherlock motioned Molly to wait and went outside to check the security measures. Along with the Garda SUV there were two military vehicles, with four armed soldiers in each, positioned in front and back of the Garda SUV. The engines were running. Aoife handed Molly a warm woollen jacket and Molly paused and hugged her warmly. "I love my new clothes Aoife; thank you so much. I'll fix you up as soon as possible". Aoife hugged her back and tutted at her

"You will not! Dr Hooper. You and your friends, God, I'm the one in your debt." Sherlock, back to collect Molly; bristled with impatience.

"Yes, lovely, we are not doing the polite stuff now. Come along Molly, the Gardaí are waiting!"

The women burst out laughing and Molly followed Sherlock out to the car. The warehouse was only a short drive away from Aoife's house and as they approached, Sherlock groaned audibly. There were four other Garda cars on site, lights flashing, and an army military vehical. The Bomb Squad were also in attendance. They were greeted by a senior detective, who introduced himself as 'Detective Reilly'. He was outfitted in forensic protective clothing and seemed less than enamoured at the delay in entering the warehouse. He was polite though. He told them that the lads from the Bomb Squad were just finishing up and they were waiting for the all clear from them to proceed. As if on que a message was relayed through his radio and the Bomb Squad began to pack up. The Detective politely but firmly insisted that they both suit up in the protective clothing. "Aoife's orders, we can't have our case thrown out on a technicality", he explained. Sherlock sighed but complied. He knew she was right.

Suited up, Sherlock, Molly and the Garda Detective then approached the huge sliding door of the warehouse. The Gardaí had cut the padlock with bolt cutters and the doors had been opened by the Bomb Squad. Other then that the scene was undisturbed. Sherlock halted the others at the door and scrouched down to examine the concrete floor. He tutted in irritation. "Obvious!" he muttered to himself. A trail of breadcrumbs led to a lone office desk in the centre of the vast warehouse. There were items on the desk. One of them was easily decernable as an open laptop but he would need to get nearer to identify what the other items were. The laptop appeared to be connected to what appeared to be secondary power sources, battery power packs. The Irish Garda Detective crouched down and collected breadcrumb samples, placing them in an evidence bag and painstakingly labeling, sealing and signing the bag. He grinned at Sherlocks obvious impatience. "I'm a great admirer, Mr Holmes, but you'll have to bear with us, there's no room for error in this case. We're dealing with a very slippery customer, as you know".

"Indeed" Sherlock acknowledged. "Take your time; but be quick".

The Irishman laughed but straightened up to indicate that they could proceed. They approached the desk and, spotting what was on it in clearer detail, Sherlock swung in front of Molly to block her view. He was too late. Pushing him gently aside she approached the desk. She stared at what was undoubtedly her cherry cardigan, crudely ripped and with a dagger piercing through where her heart would roughly be, sealing the garment to the desk. A black ribbon was tied around the right arm, to indicate bereavement. She scanned the garment without touching it.

"It's mine Sherlock. I recognise that freying at the left cuff. I'd left it aside to darn about six weeks ago. I've no idea how long it may be missing. Oh God, they were in my flat". She swallowed back a swell of emotion. The Irish Detective groaned loudly.

"Are you stating, Doctor, that this garment is yours?"

"I am." Molly replied quietly.

"Well then I regret to ask you to step away from the evidence and wait outside with my colleagues, Dr Hooper. I'm very sorry about this but there is a clear conflict of interest here", he said to her quietly but firmly, with a glance at Sherlock to indicate that he would broker no arguement. Sherlock had no intention of challenging him. He wanted Molly safely out of there too. She was ashen faced and trying to disguise her shock. He nodded at the man and wrapped his arm around her.

"He's right Molly, come along with me and wait with the Gardaí, ok?"

She nodded mutely in agreement and reached for his hand. He squeezed hers in response and, with Detective Reilly in tow, escorted her back to the SUV, promising her that they would not be much longer. He looked at the Detective then and he, in silent understanding, motioned to a female Garda officer to sit in the car with Molly. Sherlock was beginning to like the Irishman. They quickly returned to the evidence on the desk. Lying beside the laptop and cardigan was a mutilated doll. The doll had originally been of an adult female, red haired, and in a green coloured Irish traditional dancing costume. That was before their quarry had got their hands on it. Like Molly's cardigan, the torso of the doll had several stab marks through it. More distastefully though, the dolls head had been shorn in chunks to the scalp. Then it had methodically been dipped in cooling tar, considering the plastic head was intact and unmelted. As a coup de grace, the head had then been dipped in feathers. A crude message.

"Tarred and feathered", the Irishman muttered in disgust, "you get the context, Mr Holmes?" Sherlock nodded in affirmation.

"Severe punishment, ancient in origin but handed out in this country during the War of Independance, one hundred years ago, to women who were known to be 'consorting' with the enemy, the English soldiers and officers the Irish were in conflict with. This is a deliberate and provocative reference to Aoife".

Sherlock took a photo of the doll and forwarded it immediately to Mycroft. Detective Reilly took several photo's of the scene and bagged the rest of the evidence up. Sherlock groaned internally. He knew he now had a battle on his hands with Aoife. She was going to object to him examining the evidence now, considering his relationship with Molly. He texted Mycroft again. Then he observed the Irish Detective carefully packing the evidence bags into the boot of the SUV and waited. As the man closed the door of the boot his phone buzzed with a message. He read it and looking at Sherlock, he laughed out loud. "That was fast, Mr Holmes, even for you. I am to sign the evidence over to you when we get back to Aoife's house. She's arranged for laboratory equipment to be set up in the drawing room. I'll come with you if you don't mind. Excellent! I was afraid there we'd have to deliver the evidence to the Garda Forensics Lab in Dublin and, well, this is better!" Sherlock grinned at him. They were on the same page.

"Call me Sherlock, Detective Reilly". Grinning back in reply the Detective gripped his hand and shook it firmly.

"and I'm Michael, lets go then".

As the female officer stepped out of the SUV, he took up the front passenger seat and Sherlock sat in beside Molly in the back. He covered her hand with his and squeezed it. She smiled bravely at him but spoke very little on the short journey back to the house


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Having been given advance warning by Sherlock, John and Mary greeted them at the door and ushered Molly into the living room. It was a picture of cosiness with several deep, comfortable couches and armchairs centring a huge fireplace. The seats were strewn with tasteful woollen throws, of various Irish designs. Large, floor length bay windows, framed with thick, velvet, emerald green curtains, showcased the magnificent walled gardens and the sea in the background. A turf fire roared in the grate, dispersing a wonderful peat aroma throughout the room. It was warm and welcoming. The coffee table was laden with refreshments, scones, pastries and sandwiches, and a fresh pot of coffee added to the comforting aromas in the room. Molly sat down quietly on the couch, monosyllabic and withdrawn and Sherlock's concern increased. Despite Mary's best efforts she politely refused food and only accepted coffee after coaxing by Sherlock. Mary took him aside and promised him she'd stay by Molly's side until he returned from interviewing the professor in Dublin. The college was expecting him and John. It was time Molly's wrist was set properly in the cast too and she would see to it. Somewhat reassured he asked his friends if he could have a private word with Molly and they duly left the room.

He sat down close to her, careful not to crowd her. Her eyes were fixed on the cushion on her lap and she was chewing her bottom lip. She was still deathly pale. Turning towards her he reached his two arms out towards her. "Will you come here for a minute please Molly?" Swollowing back a sob she launched herself into his chest, tears finally streaming down her face. He held her tightly and stroked her back rhythmically, murmuring words of comfort into her ear. She calmed quickly. "I won't let anyone hurt you Molly", he told her firmly.

"I know that Sherlock. I just got a shock. I'm sorry to be like this. I hate being like this". He tilted her face to him and frowned. There was something else bothering her, something she wasn't saying.

"Molly Hooper, be reasonable. You've had a succession of traumas in under twenty four hours. Your reaction is perfectly normal. It's ok to be scared and you've actually been extradinarily brave". He wiped her face dry with a napkin he'd plucked from the coffee table. Tilting his head quizzically he tipped her chin up to look at him. She'd been avoiding eye contact.

"Now Molly mine, would you care to tell me what's really wrong?". Averting her head again she muttered under her breath.

"Not really".

"Molly.."

She sighed deeply. "I am afraid Sherlock, but not of the poxy Moriarty's and their stupid shite. I'm scared that you will change your mind about us. I'm scared that you'll back away from this because of these threats against me. I'm scared that you'll decide that I'm safer away from you, like you said you thought before in your letter. We've only just begun Sherlock and I'm already scared that I'm going to lose you". She laughed ruefully. "Oh, way to go Molly! Hysterical and needy in just twenty four hours, lovely!" Mollly paused then in confusion. She'd felt Sherlock's chest shaking against hers. She jerked her head back to look at him, staring incredulously at the tears pouring down his face. "Sherlock Holmes, are you laughing at me?"

"Oh Molly Hooper, you're bloody priceless! 'the poxy Moriarty's and their stupid shite?' Brilliant! You're fantastic. A family holding a nation in fear and you dismiss them as 'poxy!'" He pulled himself together and threw her a cocky wink. "Is it bad that I find that completely hot?"

"Sherlock Bloody Holmes!" she protested indignantly, eliciting another snort of laughter from him. "It's not funny!" and then she, too, laughed out loud and slapped his arm. "Oh you!". Grinning at her he pulled her onto his lap and snogged her senseless, finishing up by reigning kisses all over her face until she bagan to giggle.

"If anyone should be scared Molly, it's me. You've been attacked and threatened simply because of your association with me. I've said it before, I'm a ridiculous man who solves crimes for a living. If anyone should run for the hills it's you. You won't though, will you Molly?", he asked her nervously. She shook her head vehemently.

"Mycroft is arranging extra security for us in Baker Street. He's already sanctioned your own personal security detail whenever I'm not home or with you. You'll have the same level of protection as our parents.." He trailed off as her face lit up with a broad grin and her eyes gleamed in delight. "What did I say?" he asked.

"You said extra security for 'us' in Baker Street. Do you mean that you want me to move in with you?" He rolled his as at her then.

"Well of course I do. Didn't I tell you? Oh right, maybe you weren't in the room for that conversation. That fire in your flat only brought forward the inevitable. I want you with me Molly and not just to protect you. You already occupy an entire wing of my Mind Palace. I told you before Molly, you" (he leaned in and kissed her forehead), "matter", (placed the next kiss on the tip of her nose), "most", and placed the tenderest of kisses on her lips. "If I have my way I'll never let you go". Molly wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him hard. Then she leaned her forehead against his and closing her eyes she exhaled, deeply relieved.

"And I hear John about to interrupt us again", Sherlock said, "with Detective Reilly, Michael, to boot. I have to go now Molly. You'll get your wrist seen to immediately won't you? Mary's waiting." She nodded in agreement. Sherlock stood up, shifting his focus back to the case. Molly leaned back into the couch and closed her eyes, mouth tilted into a happy smile.

"Goodbye Sherlock Holmes", she whispered softly, "go solve me a crime". Sherlock heard her words as he neared the door into the hall and he frowned suddenly in confusion. Then he stopped dead. His eyes widened in shock and he inhaled sharply.

"Oh Molly Hooper", he thought, as he left the room. "I believe I just have".


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Michael got behind the wheel of the Garda SUV and John sat in beside him in the passenger seat. Sherlock sat in the back, pensive and silent, and retreated into his Mind Palace. John frowned in concern because every so often Sherlock emitted what sounded like a groan of disgust. He muttered "stupid" a couple of times too. John shook his head in confusion. This was odd even for Sherlock. He texted Mary to see how Molly was. However, Mary replied that 'Romeo Holmes' must have worked his magic on her because Molly was in great form. John groaned inwardly. Great, now his best mate was also going to excel in what was previously John's area of expertise. He swung his head around in bewilderment as Sherlock groaned again. Michael had obviously done his homework, John thought, because he didn't so much as raise an eyebrow at Sherlock's odd behaviour. They chatted about the scene in the warehouse earlier and Michael asked him about other cases they'd worked on. He had, indeed, done his homework. Then John received a text message from Lestrade. He was on his way back to London for a 'meeting'.

The motorway up from Wicklow was quiet and they reached the outskirts of Dublin in good time. Things began to slow up then as they hit the inevitable traffic into the city. Michael flicked on the siren and skilfully weaved in and out of the bus lanes. They were in the city centre in fifteen minutes and he double parked at the Garda Station in Pearse Street. It faced onto the distinctive and iconic granite walls encompassing Trinity College. While they waited for him to drop the car keys into the station, Sherlock rang Mycroft. Five kilometres away, in the boardroom of Garda Headquarters, Mycroft felt his mobile vibrate in his pocket. Gesturing at his phone to Aoife, who was addressing the table, he stepped out of the room to take the call. Sherlock asked for a progress report and Mycroft filled him in. Things were progressing rapidly. The raids were in play. A few regions had finer operational details to tweak but all of the targeted premises were now under surveillance. Satellite coverage had been supported by the Americans due to the sheer scale of the surveillance operation. 'Operation Oísín' was definitely set for 4:00am. The choice of time had been deliberate and Sherlock grunted in satisfaction. He knew that it was scientifically proven to be when people were in their deepest sleep or, as crucially, at their most tired if awake. There were reports flying in of major activity at the premier targets. Agents were moving in on the ground, where possible, but keeping a good distance. There was particular concern around one site near Gatwick Airport where heat seeking equipment picked up multiple persons but very little movement.

"Traffickers", Sherlock responded in disgust and Mycroft agreed.

"More than likely to be women and children to be sold on". He responded. There was a pause then.

"Give Lestrade the lead on that raid. Let's hammer the bastards Mycroft". Sherlock said.

Mycroft reported that police assault teams were beginning to assemble in police stations all over Britain and Ireland and the anticipation had seeped into the boardroom in Garda HQ. There would be a complete press black out until 4.30am. Then a statement would be released by both Government press offices, again simultaneously, announcing the joint operation. The statement would definitively link the Moriarty's to the raids. They anticipated a media scramble, just in time to film multiple targets in handcuffs, all things going to plan. Mycroft paused and noted to his brother that the British and Irish police chiefs were getting along famously, all revelling in the tightknit and professional relationship, nurtured over the past couple of decades. Mycroft assured his brother that there wasn't one bad apple in the mix. He'd ensured it. He enquired about the scene at the warehouse and Sherlock told him he'd examine the evidence after interviewing the professor. He'd already released the laptop to Michael as it wasn't his area. He expected them to find nothing worthwhile on it.

"How's Molly?", "How's Aoife?" they enquired simultaneously and both laughed drolly. Aoife was fine, Mycroft said, contemptuous of the doll, her only comment had been that she was obviously getting to them. Sherlock repeated Molly's 'Poxy Moriarty's' comment to him and he chuckled at that. Sherlock finished off the call by asking Mycroft to send him a full list of all the residential properties registered under both sibling names, in the UK and Ireland only, with a particular emphasis on cottages. Immediately on alert Mycroft asked why. Sherlock cleared his throat.

"I'll fill you in later Mycroft, I promise. It's just a lead I want to check out. It may assist us in locating Sinéad Moriarty". Well, Sherlock mused to himself, it was kind of the truth.

"You'll have it within the hour", Mycroft said, and terminated the call.

The three men were escorted into the Professor's office. It was a tight fit. Michael made the formal introductions, deliberately opting to stand at the office door. He then gave him the required speech about matters of national security, and that their conversation was to be kept in the strictest of confidence. The elderly academic began to sweat. Sherlock fixed his gaze on him.

"Sinead O'Muireartaigh", he simply said. The professor inhaled sharply and sucked in his breath.

"Well", he said, "I suppose I should have expected this visit really, in some shape or form", he said quietly. Then he began to explain. "I have so many students and she graduated over ten years ago, but I'll never forget her, believe me". He told them how she was a brilliant student and a truly gifted actor.

"She was a natural, a chameleon. She didn't just act, she actually became the character to the extent that it was eerie. She could switch it on and off in a heartbeat".

"Seen that before, runs in the bloody family", John interrupted. "Sorry, go on", he said, after a kick in the ankle from Sherlock.

Her timing, her skill, I've never seen anything like it. No role was too difficult, for her it was effortless, and, believe me, I challenged her", the professor continued. He sighed heavily then. "Here's the thing though, she avoided the limelight religiously. She refused to audition for the lead in any of the curriculum productions. I could do nothing to convince her and I was not in a position to force her. It was inexplicable. I'd never had a drama student refuse a major role in all the years I'm doing this job".

"What was she like? Describe her personality". Sherlock instructed bluntly.

The Professor didn't appear to mind, or even notice. He paused to gather his words. He described her as vivacious and popular. She was charming and witty and very attractive. She shared a room in the college with a girl from County Donegal called Grainne Kenny. The two young women hit it off immediately and soon became inseparable, as young women can do in college.

"They partied but they got their work done".

He told them that by the second term, after Christmas, he continued to cajole her to take on major acting roles and she would explain that she wanted to be a theatre director, not an actor, but he continued to push it. One day after another attempt her face turned icy.

"I said no, Professor. You'd do well to accept that. You are beginning to annoy me". Then, he said, she switched back to the charming character she usually appeared to be.

"It's hard to explain", he went on. "She chilled me to the bone with that comment. She was a completely different character and I wondered which one was the real Sinead. I let it go though. What could I do?". I didn't believe her about her passion being in direction and production. I began to wonder what drove her. But I had many students and a busy faculty so I kind of shrugged it off. She flew threw the modules, academically she was also quite brilliant". He stood up abruptly.

"Let me pull out her file", he said, "let you see a photo of her at least".

He went into the adjoining annexed office which contained huge metallic filing cabinets, floor to ceiling. Sherlock jumped up, pretending to be helpful but more concerned that he may not be entirely honest and hide something from them. The professor pulled out a number of drawers and rifled through the files, and then rechecked them all.

"That's strange", he muttered, "they don't appear to be here. Her file is missing. That can't be! We keep files for each student, photos of production plays, stock photos of casts, like I said, she was camera shy but I definitely had some. The students have to submit portfolios and head shots as part of the drama module. No, it's not here, and there is no where else it can be, before you ask, Mr Holmes".

Alarmed now, he sat and booted up his PC and searched through his electronic folders.

"Oh my God!", he exclaimed, "that entire years' data is missing. I would never have noticed as its so long ago now. What the hell is going on here?"

"Don't bother with the IT Department" Sherlock said. "They'll never find them".

He made to stand up then but the Professor stalled him.

"There's something else though, something I need to tell you". Sherlock sat down again.

"By the second and final year of the course, the two women, Sinead and Grainne, had fallen out spectacularly. It had something to do with a lad in the college, I forget his name, it's not important. I don't know the ins and outs but he was going out with Sinead one minute and then Grainne and himself seemed to get very serious. Sinead requested a room swap and that was arranged. That kind of thing happens all the time. The young man promptly moved in with Grainne. About a month later there was a fire in their room. Grainne was alone and died of smoke inhalation. It was tragic. The coroner determined her to be in a severely intoxicated condition and the fire inspector cited a burning cigarette as the cause of the fire. The Coroners Report later determined accidental death. After a tragedy of that magnitude occurring on the premises the college insisted that the effected students speak to counsellors and I sat in on some of them", he paused then.

"I made a point of sitting in on hers". He tightened his lips and drew in a deep breath. "At one point during the session she looked me in the eye and her mask slipped, quite deliberately".

"Isn't is lucky for me, Professor, that Grainne and I had fallen out? It could have been me in that room."

The expression on her face made my blood run cold. It was smug and malicious. She is a pure psychopath, Mr Holmes, as evil as they come. I firmly believe she set that fire."

Sherlock held up a picture of Jim Moriarty, displayed on his mobile phone.

"Did she look like him, Professor?"

The professor's eyes widened in shocked recognition.

"Yes she did, Mr Holmes", he replied, "she could be his sister. Oh my God! She is! O'Muireartaigh, of course!"

Michael warned the professor again not to speak to anybody about this case and he readily agreed. They saw themselves out and returned to retrieve the police car. It was a quiet and reflective journey back to Wicklow.


	12. The Irish Connection - Chapter 12

**The Irish Connection - Chapter 12**

As Sherlock and his compatriots made their way back to Wicklow, the meeting in Garda Headquarters began to wind down. It was approaching 15:00hrs and the various police chiefs needed to return home to oversee the running of the operation in their individual regions. The close proximity of the neighbouring countries and the frequency of commercial flights from Dublin to every major British city made the logistics of getting them all back swiftly very easy. Aoife oversaw the arranging and dispatching of their military escorts to the airport personally. She was leaving no room for chance. She'd asked Mycroft if he'd planned to return with them to London or if he was staying in Ireland with her for the duration. Mycroft was pleased with how she'd phrased the question.

"I'll be staying, if that's alright Aoife. I'm under strict instructions from my PM to keep a close eye on Sherlock!" He watched her reaction keenly. A small but definite smile hovered on her lips.

"Oh good. I'm glad", she said then and held his gaze a little longer then was absolutely necessary, in his opinion. He also noticed that she hadn't added any glib platitude, such as 'we value your input' which was part and parcel of diplomatic speak. Just a simple 'I'm glad', which seemed to have an interesting affect on his heart rate. 'Good God', he thought, 'first Sherlock and now I'm at it'. Perhaps, he thought, in some matters, the Holmes men were actually not really any different than 'ordinary' people after all. The idea did not exactly appall him. Aoife suggested returning to Wicklow. Her drawing room had been temporarily converted to a fully functional 'operations centre' and mini forensics lab. They could just as easily control and monitor events from there. She was keen to hear how the others had got on during the Trinity visit too. There was no more to be done in Dublin but wait, and waiting, she explained wryly, was not her strong suit. He laughed at that.

"Oh really? I'd never have noticed that". She laughed at that, realising that she was racing the two of them to the car. Greeting her armed driver and Garda escort team, she climbed in the back of her seat of private car and as the convoy roared through The Phoenix Park towards the motorway, the two chatted quietly together in the rear seat. Mycroft didn't want her to lose sight of the fact that her airfield had been attacked, an ambush only thwarted by the courage of her air traffic controller in alerting her. He also brought her attention back to the issue of the doll. "They know your movements, Aoife. They know you've met me before and certainly know that Sherlock is also involved. They're not amateurs. Lets review your personal security and the security of your home again for a minute. There's a game I used to play with Sherlock when we were children but it's just as pertinent now."

"A game?" She quizzed, one eyebrow up cynically.

"Yes Aoife, a game. If it were you, and you wanted to hide from sight but be as near to your house as possible, where would you go?"

She looked at him and nodded. She understood his reasoning and thought for some minutes. Suddenly her head jerked up.

"The holiday parks. Oh God! That's where I'd go. If it were Summer, I'd maybe hire a yacht, but it's not, so I'd break into a caravan or holiday home.".

The Brittas Bay area of Wicklow, she explained, has long been 'The Hamptons' of South County Dublin, due to it's long sandy beaches and proximity to the city. It was dotted with upmarket holiday home developments and caravan parks. They would be deserted at this time of the year. Their owners flew out to sunnier climates during the winter. The privately run developments were remotely run by management companies and nobody would notice if one of the homes was occupied. Mycroft opened his laptop and swiftly trawled through his passwords to break through the encryption. He sent a quick message and keyed in the co-ordinates for North East Wicklow. Minutes later, somewhere in space, a satellite shifted on it's axis and zoomed in to scan the area.

"That's good Aoife, really good, because time is of the essence. It's getting dark. This information helps us narrow it down. Now, you have hundreds of Gardaí occupied with our operation tonight. Nothing can impinge on that now. How are you fixed for manpower because we'll need back up on the ground as soon as I hear back from the surveillance sweep?". Aoife grinned at him and pulled out her mobile.

"That's what the army's for. Oh the lads are going to love this! They get very bored!" At that, Mycroft threw his head back and roared laughing and she laughed with him. "They do! Honestly".

Next, he told her to focus on her own house, same question. She pouted slightly and frowned at him, "It's incredibly secure Mycroft. My men are constantly patrolling the grounds. The Gardaí have locked down the perimeter roads".

"Don't get defensive Aoife. It's not personal. Think hard. How would you breach the security in your house?" She turned away from him then and stared out the window. The silence dragged on. Mycroft shifted in his seat and loosened his tie. He feared he'd insulted her, lost ground with her, and that was the last thing he'd wanted to do. He sighed and began to turn his head away from her when he suddenly felt her hand cover his on the seat between them. She threaded her fingers tightly through his.

"I'd wait until dark and rappel over the wall, from the beach. There is no patrol on the beach". She squeezed his hand. "Sherlock noticed the door to the beach last night and I've posted a man on it, but only the inside grounds, not on the outside. If it was me, I'd disable or kill him. Call Sherlock, Mycroft, and I'll call Michael. They should be there by now. Tell him to stick with Molly. There isn't even a moon tonight. It will be pitch black in a half hour!".


	13. The Irish Connection - Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Sherlock sought Molly out as soon as they arrived back at the house. He found her alone, curled up and fast asleep on a couch beside the fireplace, almost exactly where he'd left her hours earlier. Her wrist had been set in a hard cast and rested on the cushion beside her head. One of the woollen throws covered her to her hips. She was lying slightly on her side, facing the fireplace. The lighting was subdued, with only a small lamp on the table by the bay window illuminating the large room. The sun had gone down and firelight danced across her face. Sherlock sucked in a breath. She was beautiful. He felt like a schoolboy, looking at her, and he wanted to wake her and scoop her up again in his arms. He resisted the urge. Sleep was the best medicine for her now. A soft smile flickered, momentarily, across her face and he wondered if she was dreaming of him. He took off his jacket and sat in an armchair, fingers steepled under his chin, and studied her as she slept. The sleeves of her jumper were pulled up over her elbows, no doubt to accommodate the bulky hard cast. The bruising on her arms appeared darker as the healing process developed. It was normal but he gritted his teeth and determined to pay the second man, John's guy, a visit as soon as possible. He frowned, concerned she'd awaken, as a text alert vibrated in his shirt pocket. He read the message and jumped to his feet.

'Threat of a security breach from the east wall. Secure Molly and the Watsons. Michael on his way to you with a firearm.'

Sherlock raced across the room and turned out the light. He dragged the curtains tightly closed. Molly began to stir and reaching her side, he crouched down and gently stroked her face. Her large brown eyes flickered open and the beginnings of a smile played on her mouth at the sight of him. He placed a finger on her lips in warning and her eyes popped in alarm. He pulled her up and moved her swiftly behind the living room door. Upon hearing the sound of someone running on the tiled hall floor outside the door he braced himself for attack. Then Michael's voice called from behind the door. "It's me Sherlock. Don't kill me!" The butt of a revolver waved around the door and Sherlock laughed and grabbed it. A grinning Michael appeared behind it. "Jesus, you lads aren't boring, are ye!, howaya Molly? Come on now, we have to find the Watsons. Where did John go Sherlock?"

"Bedroom". Sherlock said, and grabbing Molly's hand he lead her out after him into the hall.

"What's happening Sherlock?" she whispered.

"Not sure, maybe nothing. Lets find Mary and John".

John strolled out of the kitchen with a packet of biscuits in his hand and gaped at the two men with their weapons drawn. He dropped the packet and pulled out his own weapon, racing up the stairs to find Mary. The others took after him, Sherlock taking up the rear.

"I thought you were going upstairs!" Sherlock hissed behind him.

"Mary wanted biscuits, she texted me!"

"When?" Sherlock demanded as they reached the landing. Sherlock and Michael flanked Molly on both sides, checking bedroom doors carefully.

"I don't know, about ten minutes ago. Why?"

"Does she have her weapon?"

"It's Mary we're talking about Sherlock! Of course she has!"

"Good, good,"

"Sherlock..!" John began demanding an explanation as he entered his bedroom. There was no sign of Mary. The en suite bathroom was wide open and empty too.

"Oh shit, where is she?" John said and then the house plunged into darkness. Sherlock grabbed Molly around the waist with one arm and lifting her off her feet, he moved to the wall behind the bedroom door. Molly gasped in pain at the rough contact with her battered torso and Sherlock dropped her to her feet and whispered an apology. She shook her head at him and gently squeezed his hand. Michael ran towards the bed and pulled one of the bedside lockers away from the wall. He hit the concealed panic button and an alarm shrieked all over the house and grounds. Emergency lighting flashed on in seconds. Garda sirens could be heard approaching in the distance. Then they heard gunshots downstairs. Aoife's security team thundered through the house. Sherlock held a hand up to stop John from racing out of the room.

"Let them secure the house John. Let them do their job. If you go out there half cocked with a weapon drawn, you'll get shot. Mary's an expert marksman. You know she is and she can take care of herself"

"Like you'd stay here if it was Molly!"

"Molly is unarmed and couldn't shoot a duck in a barrel even if she wasn't!"

"Molly's in the bloody room!", she hissed at them through her teeth.

Michael interjected. "Sherlock's right John. It'll just take a minute or two. Actually, they're coming now", he declared as two burly men thundered into the room, scanning the occupants.

"Lower your weapon's gentlemen, please," one of them said. Michael complied and gestured to the others to do likewise.

"Thank you. Now, which one of you is Dr Watson?"

"I am, why?" John answered anxiously.

"Your services are required downstairs. We have an injured man. Oh, and your wife is asking for you". Seconds later the alarm shut off and the lights came flooding back on. John ran straight out the door and back down the stairs. Michael glanced at Molly and Sherlock. "Well come on you two. I'm not missing this!," and proceeded out the door after him. Molly tugged Sherlock's hand and pulled him after her towards the staircase. He grabbed her hand to slow her down, a guilty look on his face.

"You may, em, have some questions Molly?" he queried, with his best 'little boy lost' look.

"One or two Sherlock, but it will keep". She responded, and stroked his chest. A lesser man would have interpreted the gesture to be one of affection but Sherlock was not 'a lesser man'. He grimaced. Molly, he ruefully acknowledged, was no idiot. She'd placed her hand directly over the scar from his bullet wound.

They followed Aoife's security team to the door of their 'operations centre', the converted dining room. However, they were refused entry to the room, with the exception of John, and the reason was obvious. At the back of the room, by the open French doors, a member of the security team was being attended to by a colleague. He was nursing what appeared to be a flesh wound and a rather nasty blow to the head. Far more interestingly, Mary was sitting calmly in a dining chair and the body of a man lay on the floor at her feet, not unlike a sacrificial lamb, Sherlock thought. The, apparently dead man was dressed completely in black. His face and head was covered in a balaclava. Well, he mused, what was left of his head. Mary really was a very good shot.

Michael, as the senior officer on the scene, brought John in to Mary, skirting a wide circle around the body. Grabbing surgical gloves from his pocket, Michael then rolled the hat off the man's face. For the second time in his life, Sherlock looked into the death mask of Jim Moriarty or, in this case, John Moriarty.

"John, make sure he's bloody dead, will you?" he demanded from the door, and then, "Michael, let me in!" Another demand. Sherlock was getting impatient.

"Hang on Sherlock!, I will in a minute," he replied, "here's the cavalry!" he cautioned, alerting them to the arrival of Aoife's escorted car. A minute later Mycroft and Aoife raced through the front door and shuddered to a halt at Sherlock's side.

"Oh hello Aoife, Mycroft", Sherlock drawled, stepping slightly back so they could look into the room too. "Sorry, you've missed the party. Meet John Moriarty. Boring, amateur and deservedly dead. Now the sister, she's something else entirely, but we'll get to that later. Aoife, can you get everyone out of the room now because my evidence samples are in here and I need to start examining them immediately. Anyway, you know, there's that 'thing' going on later and we need this room for that". He ruffled his head in frustration. "Molly can stay and help me but just Molly. Oh, and Michael, and John. Well, maybe not John. Mary will be needing him. Anyway, we'll need a couple of hours".

Mycroft covered his mouth with his hand to stifle a grin but Aoife caught him and stared. He shook his head at her innocently and then shrugged his shoulders. She threw him an incredulous look and then raised a questioning brow at Michael. He was the senior officer so he had the say about the room. And he looked as if he was having the time of his life. Laughter was actually dancing in his eyes. Honest to God, three grown men and they were acting like a pack of kids, she thought, as she bit her bottom lip to hide her smile.

"Give me an hour Aoife and I'll clear the place. You all go and have tea or something. I'll take Mary's statement in the morning. Cut and dried self defence, right everyone?". All heads nodded in agreement.

As they trooped into the kitchen Sherlock said loudly to Mycroft, "Mykie, we have got to buy a house here. This place is bloody brilliant!". The group exploded with laughter. A smiling Mycroft was halted at the door by Sherlock's hand on his shoulder. "Thank you for the text, brother mine," he said quietly to him.

Mycroft swollowed a lump in his throat. "My pleasure Sherlock", he replied. Sherlock had not called him 'Mykie' since he was seven years old.


	14. The Irish Connection - Chapter 14

Chapter 14

As is customary after a drama or crisis, especially in Britain and Ireland, the kettle was boiled and the traditional tea making ceremony commenced. As her guests sat around the table, Aoife grabbed mugs, side plates and cutlery and plonked them unceremoniously down upon it. Milk and sugar arrived next, followed by an entire honey baked ham, brown and white home made bread and Irish Kerrygold butter. For a grand finale, a home made tea brack and luscious carrot cake were rustled from the larder.

"Oh yum, Marie has excelled herself", she exclaimed, "well, come on everyone, we might as well eat while we can. Help yourselves. Mycroft, will you carve the ham please?" she asked him, handing him a carving knife and fork. Mycroft positively preened as he stood up and proceeded to carve the meat into thick slices. Standing close beside him she leaned into his ear and murmured "and don't even think about poaching my housekeeper!" He looked straight down into her eyes and laughed.

Molly's eyes widened at Sherlock, finally noticing the interesting interactions of the 'British and Irish Governments', and Sherlock winked at her. "I know", he purred into her ear, "its like watching a primitive mating ritual, isn't it?" and she gasped out a laugh. She gasped primarily because the git was currently stroking the inside of her thigh under the table.

"You can talk!", she replied, looking down pointedly.

"Well Molly," he replied, "what do you expect", Mmm? I've been thinking about you in those jeans all day. It's very distracting!".

Jesus, Molly thought, that voice, in her ear, might actually give her a heart attack. Never mind what he was doing with his hand. She sucked in oxygen. She'd forgotten to breath there for a minute.

"So is that, and someone might see!".

Sherlock smirked and continued twirling his index finger lightly in small circles half way up her inner thigh. Molly struggled not to squirm in her seat. She was beginning to look deliciously flushed, Sherlock thought smugly.

"Sherlock!"

"Fine..., but I'm not finished with you yet", he whispered in her ear. He lifted his hand and began to butter her bread. "Would you like some mustard on your ham Molly?" he enquired innocently.

"I know exactly what you're up to Sherlock Holmes," she murmured quietly to him, "and it's not going to work. I want to know about that," and she once again stroked his chest, "and I want you to be the one to tell me."

"I know Molly, and I will explain, but I do want you to be very clear about something", he said solemnly, and paused for dramatic effect, " I meant every word about the jeans." Molly couldn't restrain a giggle.

Mary heard the laughter and smiled affectionately at her two friends. Sherlock grinned back at her and then asked her to recount the events that had led to the shooting of John Moriarty. As they ate, Mary explained to the group that after tending to Molly's wrist and helping her sort out her new clothes they had settled into the living room. Molly had nodded off to sleep and she'd decided to go up to her room and have a nap too. At this late stage of her pregnancy she was waking a lot during the night. She'd slept for a few hours, she said, and only woke up when John texted her to say they were almost home. She'd texted him back to ask him to fetch biscuits from the kitchen on his way up to their bedroom. Then, she said, as it was almost dark outside, she went to draw the bedroom curtains. She went on to explain that she's glimpsed a quick flash at the back of the garden, near the wall, and that she'd recognised it immediately as the flash of a firearm with a silencer. Then she'd grabbed her gun and gone downstairs. At that point Aoife interrupted her.

"I am curious to know why a doctor's wife, a nurse in a medical practice, if my sources are correct, would have a gun in the first place, or, more interestingly, secure a kill shot in a darkened room with only one bullet. In my experience, I have never known an amateur shooter to have such an outcome. In fact, there would normally be a number of shots fired by a panicked, inexperienced shooter, in similar circumstances".

"You're not the only one..," Molly muttered, ignoring Sherlock's warning glare.

"Lucky shot." Mary answered calmly.

"Hardly," Aoife countered, "especially, as you say, you recognised the particular flash of a silenced revolver from sixty feet away. Anyone else would assume it was the flash of a cigarette or lighter from one of my men."

An awkward silence descended on the room but Aoife was determined not to be the one to break it. Then Mary conceded.

"I never said that I was inexperienced or that I was an amateur," she said quietly.

Mycroft placed his hand over Aoife's on the table and, after giving it a quick squeeze, moved it beside hers and slowly strummed his fingers. The message couldn't be clearer. 'Cease and desist, I'll explain later'. Aoife relaxed.

"That's right. To be fair," she agreed, "you didn't. Please go on." John expelled the breath he'd been holding.

Mary continued to explain that then she'd searched the ground floor of the house. The housekeeper had left for the evening and, except for Molly, who was still safe and asleep in the living room, the house was deserted. When she got to the 'operation centre' she moved to the side of the room to check that the IT equipment was secure when someone shot through the lock on the French door from the garden and entered the room. She told them she'd called out a warning that she was armed but he'd just laughed and kept striding up through the room with his weapon drawn, so, she'd shot him. Seconds later Aoife's men came bursting through the doors and, well, they knew the rest. John reached over and held her hand.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Well I know one thing which is without question Mary Watson. Your actions this evening prevented him from reaching his intended target," he said. Then his eyes locked on Mollys. He lifted her hand and, turning her palm towards him, raised it to his lips and kissed it tenderly. "And I, for one", he continued, "am incredibly grateful to you for that."

Molly's heart surged in her chest as he pressed his lips to her palm again. Impervious to their audience, she leaned over to him and stroked his cheek softly with the fingertips protruding from her cast. A respectful silence descended on the kitchen. Aoife contemplated the tender scene in front of her. She felt Mycroft's hand gently nudge hers. She turned to look at him and he raised a pleading brow at her. Oh for heavens sake! she thought, one Holmes was bad enough. How could she resist two of them? Especially this one, she confessed to herself. Thinking quickly, Aoife rationalised that Mary's background or level of marksmanship was actually not relevant to the events of that evening. She also had no doubt of the veracity of Mary's account of the shooting incident itself. Leaning over to Mycroft she said quietly, "oh alright, but help her to get her background story straight, for goodness sake!" Addressing the table she confirmed, to the great relief of the room, "self defence it is then!."

Then Molly jumped up suddenly and, blushing furiously, blurted out, "excuse us please!." She grabbed Sherlock by the hand and dragged a very eager consulting detective with her out of the room.

"Well, John snorted, "If I know anything, and I'm pretty sure I do, there goes a man about to be thoroughly snogged!" Laughter resounded once again from the kitchen.


	15. The Irish Connection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick thanks to all of you for your continued support and kindness. By the way, I've decided that this is my favourite chapter. It's short but very sweet, I think. I hope you enjoy it too.

Chapter 15

Molly pulled Sherlock into the living room, closing the door behind them with more force than was completely necessary, in his opinion. He was about to share that thought with her when, to his utter delight, she pushed him back against it. Then, when she hooked her arm around his neck and, pulling his head down to hers, claimed his mouth, he forgot all reason.

Molly kissed him with all of her heart. Literally. His words in the kitchen, culminating in the reverential kiss into her palm, had reverberated through her entire body, found her heart, shot through it's already crumbling walls, and locked him in there for as long as it continued to beat. She knew this man, she did, but this romantic part of him, released finally, totally overwhelmed her. She was completely besotted with him. She strained up to him, struggling to get a proper hold, but her cast encumbered her. Groaning with frustration she grumbled into his mouth, "you're too tall!"

"Then get up here woman!," he growled back at her.

Gripping her by the hips he lifted her up effortlessly and she gasped into his mouth. Always a quick study, Molly locked her legs tightly around his waist and wrapped her arms around his neck. She moved her mouth repeatedly over his and he coaxed hers open, swinging her around and pressing her back against the door. Sherlock took control then, completely. He explored her mouth with a ruthless efficiency that took her breath away. It was electrifying, this chemistry between them, she thought, and it was definitely mutual. She could feel the hard evidence of that for herself and she moaned and gripped him even tighter, carding the fingers of her healthy hand through his thick curls. Her hair fell in a curtain over his face and he gripped it with one hand and tugging it to the side, he mouthed his way along her jawline and into her neck, nuzzling behind her ear. He could feel her pulse under his lips, the blood rushing through the vein, and noted wryly that rushing blood was also having a powerful effect on his own anatomy. Afraid she'd slip, he gripped her harder by her waist. She moaned involuntarily, then tried to stifle it, and kept on kissing his neck. Sherlock froze. That was not an exclamation of pleasure. He'd hurt her. Her assault was too recent, her body too tender still. He slackened his arms to release her but she refused to let go of him, arms and legs clinging to him like a limpet.

"Molly let go," he urged her gently.

"No," she replied, "I'm fine," and kept her face buried in his neck. Sherlock swallowed back the lump that had suddenly appeared in his throat. He felt completely and utterly beguiled by her.

"You're not, my darling, you know you're not, come on now, let me go."

She shook her head stubbornly.

"Molly.."

She sighed dramatically into his ear, then whispered a petulant, "spoilsport!" and he chuckled in response. She slid down his body and, catching her gently under her knees and around her waist, he carried her over to the armchair by the fireplace and lowered himself down in it, bringing her with him onto his lap. She grinned at him in delight and smirking back at her, he pulled her into his chest and resumed nuzzling her ear.

"I never said 'stop' Molly," he muttered deeply, and she giggled and gripped his curls again.

"That's right," she agreed, turning his face to her, "you didn't, did you?" and she leaned down and ran her lips across his remarkable cheekbones and then found his mouth again with her own.


	16. The Irish Connection

Chapter 16

Michael's team were almost finished in the 'Operation Centre' and as the clean up was going on, he hadn't been idle either. Aoife's background check on the Moriarty's early Irish history had been informative and there were a couple of leads he'd been keen to chase up. The death certificates for their parents had deemed their deaths 'accidental' and there was no further information to be gleaned from them. Tracing the coroners reports had taken most of the day but he'd finally received the emailed documents and it contained more questions then answers. Marie and James Moriarty (senior) had died from 'multiple and catastrophic injuries resulting from a single vehicle RTA, (Road Traffic Accident). The car had left the road and smashed down a wooded embankment at high speed at approximately 2:00am in the morning. The blood alcohol limit of the driver was over twice the legal limit, the coroner had reported. That was obviously the deciding factor for the coroner.

While he was supervising the removal of the remains of their second son from Aoife Quinn's home, he received a call he'd been waiting on. He'd been trying to trace the young Garda who'd logged the report on that fatal crash over twenty years ago. He was a sergeant now and was out on annual leave in Mexico, of all places, so it had taken a frustrating number of hours to find him. It was worth the wait. The Sergeant remembered the crash because it was his first. He recounted events similar to the information on the reports Michael had already seen. Just as Michael was terminating the call, he thought to ask him if there was anything unusual about the scene, or anything else he remembered. The Sergeant paused and then said, "you know something Sir, yes there was. There was a very strong smell of whiskey from both of the victims, the front of both of their coats was drenched in it too, but there was no whiskey bottle in the car. I checked. Michael thanked him and hung up the call. A Garda approached him then and handed him a package that had arrived by courier in the middle of the chaos of vehicles in the front drive. It was addressed to Sherlock Holmes.

Back in the living room Sherlock sighed contentedly as he tucked his pathologist's head under his chin and ran a caressing hand up and down her arm. The petite and perfect hand connected to that arm was doing delicious things to his chest under his open shirt. Then as her fingers reached the puckered skin from his bullet wound, her hand stilled. Pulling his shirt aside, she leaned in to his chest and she placed a tender kiss on his scar. Then she buttoned his shirt closed, stood up determinedly and sat on the couch, facing him.

"I'd like you to tell me now why Mary nearly killed you, and don't bother denying it", she said calmly. Sherlock groaned inwardly. This was going to be a difficult conversation.

"I wasn't going to deny it Molly, and she didn't try to kill me, she saved me actually". The beginnings of a frown appeared on Molly's brow.

"Did she or did she not shoot you in Magnussen's house, Sherlock?

"Well, technically, yes she did Molly, but it was an expert shot and she rang the ambulance!" Molly stared at him incredulously. She took a deep breath and continued.

"I will get to that unbelievable comment in a minute. Meanwhile, indulge me a little. The vile press mogul was obviously blackmailing Mary, or whoever she is, because that's how he got his little jolly's off. Somehow you and John appeared on the scene at the same time as she was there. She's lethally efficient isn't she? If I recall, she'd assaulted Magnussen, his bodyguard, and your 'fiancee', and now it appears almost killed you too. How am I doing so far?"

"Brilliantly Molly!" Sherlock grinned proudly. "I'm very impressed. Except for the 'almost killing me' bit. She didn't. She could have but she didn't. Her bullet was surgical in its precision. She had to shoot me or Magnussen would have claimed that we'd assaulted him and his staff. It was an excellent shot!" he exclaimed enthusiastically.

"Stop saying that Sherlock! May I remind you that you died! You actually died! Do you have any idea what that did to me, or to your brother, or to your poor parents? And what about John? He had to witness it, and so soon after adjusting to the shock of your return. No wonder they separated so quickly after their wedding." Sherlock jumped to his feet and scratched the back of his head in confusion.

"But John is fine Molly. As am I. My parents are fine now too. Look at me Molly", he coaxed her gently. She was getting distressed, folding her arms tightly around herself and biting her lip. Tears were pooling in her eyes.

"She had no choice Molly, she really didn't. She had to make a split second decision and she made the best one she could. Her shot was precise, and look, here I am big and bold as ever. I am known to be indestructible!". Molly expelled a deep sigh. He just wasn't getting it and she struggled to find the words to help him to understand.

"Sherlock. You are smartest man I have ever known. Your knowledge of medicine, anatomy, the human body, is astonishing, so please, don't ever praise Mary's expertise to me again. It's nonsense and you know it. She took a potentially lethal risk by firing a high velocity bullet, at close range, into your liver. The shot may have been precise to the millimetre but that is the only variable she could control. The second she pulled that trigger her control ended. She took an incredible risk with your life. She had no bloody right. You could have bled out at the scene." Sherlock went to interject.

"Don't go there with me Sherlock. You could have. You know well that it depended on any number of factors pertaining to your blood pressure, liver function and a myriad of other variables, none of which she was privy to. What if you'd developed septicaemia, went into toxic shock? Consider this also. What if the ambulance she so kindly rang for you had been delayed, even by minutes? What if they'd got into a crash? My point is that she had no control over anything that happened from the second she shot you."

Molly took a deep breath. She was getting through to him with her counterarguments. She could see him considering and evaluating what she was saying. She was nearly there.

"But you saved me Molly." Sherlock told her.

"What do you mean Sherlock? I wasn't even there!"

He took a faltering step towards her.

"Oh you were there Molly," he asserted, "the first person I saw after the bullet hit me was you. You were in my mind palace, guiding me through it. You told me to fall on my back, stem the blood flow. You told me not to go into shock, how to avoid it. You're quite right. Mary didn't save me. You did."

Molly stared at him. He was doing it again. How on earth did he do that? He'd totally disarmed her, astonished her and made her heart leap out of her chest. Again. She shook her head in wonder and he smiled at her. He took another tentative step towards her but she held up a hand to stall him.

"The rest of you have had months to deal with the permeations of her actions that night. I'm only learning of it now." She paused in thought and remembered pain flashed across her face. "I came to you the night of your second surgery you know Sherlock. You were so badly injured and I was so terribly upset."

"I know Molly," he said quietly, "I was quite out of it really, but I do remember waiting and hoping for you, and then I half woke up and you were there, sitting beside me and holding my hand. I was so very pleased to see you."

Molly blinked at him and the tears, pooling in her eyes, fell slowing down her face. She just had one more thing to say.

"I know you are wondering why I'm so upset when you are standing fit and healthy in front of me, 'big and bold' as you so accurately describe," she smiled tenuously at him. "But can you try something Sherlock please?," she asked. He nodded at her and her smile was stronger. Then she spoke, quietly and seriously.

"Can you imagine if it was me she shot, instead of you? Can you imagine if it was me who'd flat lined. Imagine if it was me who'd spent weeks in pain and months in recovery? If you can just do that please, my darling man." She paused and sighed softly. "Then when you do, can you try to imagine how you'd feel?."

Sherlock stood still in shock. He did what she asked. He imagined it was her until he almost couldn't breath.

"Oh!" he said finally.

He watched her wipe the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand.

"Oh indeed!" She replied.

She'd got through to him. He understood. She exhaled a shaky breath. He breached the distance between them and reached for her. Wrapping his arms around her, he kissed the drying tears from her face. He held her gently until her trembling ceased. Then, still gently gripping her arms, he stood her away from him to look in her eyes.

"I promise you here and now Molly, that I will never joke about my shooting again," he kissed her forehead and then continued. "Can you do something for me though Molly please?. She looked up at him enquiringly. "Can you try to forgive Mary? She'd been punished enough, to be honest, and she almost lost John. He's finally forgiven her and I have too." He paused as he watched her think. "Please Molly, what do you say?"

Molly went very quiet for a number of minutes. She thought of how kind Mary had always been to her, including today. She thought of how she had protected her that very evening, how she had killed John Moriarty to defend her. Without Mary she would be dead now. She wouldn't have the promise of this new and wonderful thing with Sherlock. She looked up at his beautiful face, all anxious as he awaited her decision.

"I already have," She said.


	17. The Irish Connection

Chapter 17

Michael's team gave him the all clear at 18:00hrs and he went to notify 'the Boss'. He found Aoife and her English guests, colleagues now really, still gathered in the kitchen, well, all except Sherlock Holmes and Dr Hooper, who were conspicuous by their absence. Mycroft Holmes was pent up with impatience, keen to get set up and operational. The raids were scheduled for ten hours time. It was time to check back in. Using the Operational Room, he'd decided, was the safer option. The room was going to be busy but it was large and there was plenty of room for everyone to work together. They were heavily guarded here in Aoife's home and they had safe and secure feeds to London and Dublin. Another trip back up to Dublin with Aoife was not advisable. They were more vulnerable while on the move and it was an unnecessary and unacceptable risk. Sherlock would have to put up with it. He caught Aoife's glance and smiled at her. She was rearing to go as well. As they made their way into the Operational Room, they were joined by Sherlock and Molly. His brother, to his surprise, was quite happy with the new arrangement. He agreed it made sense and asked Michael to join them too.

Molly, although incapacitated to a degree by her broken wrist, was keen to assist Sherlock. She was prohibited from any contact with the evidence from the warehouse but she could help him prep. She listened as Michael briefed them on the cause of death of the Moriartys' parents. She noticed Sherlock tilt his head slightly at something Michael said about a missing whiskey bottle. A little gleam glinted in his eyes. She knew that look. He was on to something. She was right.

"Aoife," he said, "can you execute warrants for the exhumation of their bodies please, one for them and another one for the young student, Gráinne, that died in the fire in Trinity College? I sincerely hope that they were not cremated. Can you find out immediately? It has to be done tonight. Have samples taken from all three and have them sent here to Molly, She'll tell you what to samples to collect."

Aoife pulled out her mobile phone to facilitate his request without asking questions. She knew Sherlock's reputation. It was why she wanted him here in the first place. It was a difficult request though. Exhumations were sensitive by their very nature, and warrants took time, but these circumstances were exceptional and she would have to make that very clear, very fast. Excusing herself from the room, she rang the Minister for Justice. This was turning into a very busy night for the Irish State.

"It's the alcohol, isn't it?" Michael queried, but it was more a statement then a question. Sherlock nodded as he prepared to open the evidence bag containing Molly's cardigan.

"Three times as the cause of death is a little too coincidental. It was used to cover up something else, an incapacitating agent, such as Rohypnol, I suspect. We'll see. Maybe Ms Moriarty got careless." Sherlock was convinced that she was the one who had murdered her parents. She'd probably grown tired of being separated from the twins. He asked Michael to trace her school attendance records. He needed to prove she was at home the night of their deaths.

With that Sherlock pulled on surgical gloves, pulled out his magnifying glass, moved Molly's cardigan under the powerful desk lamp, and started to work. Molly began to line up slides for him. She knew how he liked to work and could anticipate his requirements before he needed to ask. Humming his thanks, Sherlock picked up a tweezers and set about meticulously extracting minute samples and placing them on the slides for analysis.

Aoife and Mycroft, at the other end of the room, powered up the sea of monitors, hooking them into central command stations in Dublin and London. Images came flooding though from CCTV and hidden reconnaissance camera's all over the UK and Ireland. The 'Operations Centre' soon became a hive of activity. Aoife kept a close eye on one screen in particular. On it she could see that the Irish Army were on the move. They were making their way in a huge numbers to co- ordinate house to house searches on every holiday park within a ten mile radius. Moriarty's criminal empire was about to topple.

Michael suddenly remembered the delivery for Sherlock and dropped the packet on the table beside him. Sherlock scanned it and groaned. Well, they were all here and he may as well get it over with. Sighing deeply he then announced loudly, "actually, that's a present for Molly." Mollys head shot up and she gave him that special smile, the one that he adored, that lit up her eyes like beacon lights and dimples he could drown in.

"For me?, really?, how did you..? what is it?, can I open it now?"

He nodded and she proceeded to rip open the hard cardboard packaging. She frowned in puzzlement and then stared at the photobook in her hands. It was an exact replica of the precious photo album that had been destroyed in the fire in her home the day before. She flicked through it in disbelief. Her life and family were laid out in perfect chronological order, from her baby pictures, childhood holidays, extended family, her parents, her graduation photos, even John and Mary's wedding. Every memory she thought she'd lost, he'd saved for her. Oh bloody hell! she thought, he'll have me crying again.

"How Sherlock? I can't believe my own eyes. How is this even possible?"

"I was using your room for a 'bolt hole' Molly and I got very bored. I, em, 'found' your album in your dresser drawer. By the way, your sock filing system is a disgrace. Anyway, some of the photos were old and obviously not digital. I have a scanning app on my iphone. So I scanned them all. I ordered the book last night. I wanted to surprise you."

"Oh Sherlock!" Molly couldn't help herself. She launched herself at him and hugged him. "I should be cross at you, you nosy git!, but I'm not, I'm really not. You're brilliant. Thank you so much."

Sherlock returned her embraced but sneaked a glance at Mycroft over her head. His worst fears were confirmed. Mycroft's 'shit eating' smirk was back in play.

"Yes indeed Sherlock", he purred, "That's so thoughtful of you. Come here Molly and show Aoife and I. We have a few minutes and we'd love to see it."

Every head in the room swung to look at him in shock. Mycroft Holmes wanted to look at something as mundane as a family photo album? On what planet?

"We would?", Aoife exclaimed, and then immediately remembered her manners. "Oh we would of course, lovely!", she said, as she kicked Mycroft under the table.

"Plenty of time for that later Mycroft. We're very busy here." Sherlock practically spat out.

"Oh but Molly's not and we've come to a natural lull. Do show us Molly!"

Molly frowned at Mycroft in suspicion and wondered what the hell he was up to. Sherlock was squirming beside her. John and Mary were following the conversation with avid interest. Michael, once again, was enjoying himself immensely, watching the interaction and waiting to see the catch. And there was definitely a catch. He was certain of that much. Aoife was going to have to invite the Holmes gang back. He hadn't been this entertained in years. Sherlock let out a deep, defeated sigh.

"It's alright Molly," he said, "show Aoife the album."

Perplexed, but willing to let this play out, Molly sat beside Aoife and as swiftly as she could, she flicked through the pages of the book, briefly describing the time and events they depicted. Mary and John had shifted over beside them. They too wanted to see what Mycroft was up to. They warmed to the theme though because the photo's were interesting enough. Aoife became more engaged too, recognising some of the landmarks and buildings. Molly neared the back of the album.

"Oh look Aoife," she said, "here's some of Mary and John's wedding photos!" Sherlock groaned out loud. Molly turned the page. The next image was a centre spread of the wedding party. Molly continued the running commentary as she was revealed each image. "Doesn't everyone look fabulous?, It was a lovely wedding, and Sherlock even solved a case that day too!" As she moved to turn to the next page Aoife stilled her hand. "What is it Aoife?", she asked.

"Oh nothing really Molly," she replied, her tone icy. "I agree, it's a lovely wedding. I do have a question for you all though" she said, standing up and pressing her clenched fists on the table in front of her.

"Why, in the name of Jesus, is Sinead Moriarty the chief bloody bridesmaid?"


	18. The Irish Connection

Chapter 18

Aoife's words were greeted with a shocked silence. As she scanned the faces staring at her, she realised something immediately. They obviously didn't know. At least, some of them didn't. Mycroft and Sherlock clearly had a lot of explaining to do. She sucked in a sharp breath, realising that Mycroft had known that she would recognise Sinéad Moriarty from her quick glimpse of her years ago at that fateful Irish camp. He'd used that knowledge to manipulate a revelation for the sole purpose of embarrassing his brother somehow. He'd used her as a pawn in whatever this perpetual game of one-upmanship was between them. She glanced at him briefly and he caught the flicker of hurt in her eyes. He winced and was ashamed. He hadn't thought. He should have warned her.

John broke the silence. "What are you talking about Aoife?" he exclaimed. "That's Janine!, tell her Mary!"

Mary dropped her head into her hands. "Oh my God!, Oh my God! Janine! How did I not see it? How? Christ, it's so obvious, she's the bloody image of Jim too. Oh God!"

"Janine?, oh for heaven's sake! 'Janet', 'Jane', 'Janine', they're all English derivatives of 'Sinéad'! Aoife spat out, completely exasperated.

John jumped up then. "Magnusson!, Sherlock, he bloody told us at Appledore, and we missed it. He said he used to flick Janine's face too. He knew Sherlock! He knew who she was, and he was bloody blackmailing her too!" He paused then and glared at Sherlock. "You did miss it Sherlock, didn't you?"

"I only realised yesterday John," Sherlock said sincerely, "It was something Molly said to me, and it all suddenly clicked into place. Very disconcerting really." He muttered grumpily.

John stared at Sherlock, and stared, and then a smile flashed across his face. His shoulders began to shake and he started to laugh. Then he doubled over, clutched his sides and continued to laugh, tears pouring down his face. Mary stared at him in astonishment.

"John! What on earth?"

He tried to answer her but he only managed a choked "he, he.." before laughing again, pointing his finger at a peculiarly sheepish looking Sherlock. He took in a deep breath and tried again.

"He snogged Jim Moriarty's sister!" and he snorted again.

Michael stared at the two men, saw Sherlock's petulant face and threw back his head and roared. Mary spluttered out an "Oh God Sherlock!" and joined them.

Molly stood beside Sherlock and took his hand. He went to pull it away but she gripped it firmly. She saw Aoife's face set, watching them laughing, and knew she was confused and hurt and thinking of her brother. She looked at Mycroft, clearly choked with remorse. She thought of 'Janine' and how lethal she was. She thought of Jim Moriarty and how he had played her too. She cleared her throat loudly.

"That's enough now, you've had your fun," she said firmly.

They sobered immediately.

"Sorry Molly" John said. "Sorry Aoife", he addressed her too, "It's just an in-joke, you see Sherlock 'fake dated 'Janine' for a case and now it turns out, she was at it too."

Aoife nodded at him. Quiet voiced but commanding the room she addressed Sherlock, who was looking at her with a tinge of concern.

"Does this revelation assist us in locating her in any way? Perhaps she may have let something slip?"

He looked at her with a new respect. "It may Aoife. She mentioned buying a cottage. She more than likely lied about the location, she said it was in Sussex but, I've asked Mycroft to follow it up from the list of Moriarty properties. It may well be here in Ireland"

"Well, it's a lead, at any rate. Thank you. Well, we'd best crack on then." She turned back to view the monitors again. Sherlock returned to his samples. Mary asked Mycroft for the list of cottage properties, suggesting that herself and John would start a search while they waited for the raids to begin. As he tapped out the data on his phone to send to Mary, Aoife stood up and left the room.

Silence descended on the group. Mycroft fixed his eyes back on the monitors and bit his bottom lip. Sherlock took a deep and impatient breath. He hadn't seen his brother bite his lip like that in twenty years. Snapping off his surgical gloves, he murmured to Molly that he'd be back in a minute and to keep an eye on his samples. He approached his brother, addressing his rigid back. "A word, blood, and bring your cigarettes." Mycroft followed him out of the French doors into the garden.

The two brothers performed the lighting up ritual silently and inhaled deeply. Sherlock broke the silence. "You realise Mycroft that you have to go after her and apologise?"

"Of course I do Sherlock and I shall." He paused, and then spoke his mind. "The thing is though, well, a woman like Aoife, all that beauty and intelligence, she could have any man she wants. I'm not like you. You and Mother, well, you got the looks of the family," he paused, inhaled again and added drolly, "feel free to contradict me at any time, little brother."

"Well..no, so far so good. You were saying?" and Mycroft spluttered a laugh.

"And I got the brains,.. anyway 'this'," as he gestured generally towards the house, "this would only complicate things."

"I'm hardly an expert at 'this' myself Mycroft, you know that, because I've never wanted it before. Yes, I could have 'had anybody', but I always believed it would interfere with the work, that it was a messy business, and a complication I was unwilling to accept."

"Until Molly."

"Yes. Until Molly, and you know why? Because with her it's really quite simple. I want her, and she wants me. You and Aoife will work for the same reason." He paused then and inhaled again. "As for Aoife, I agree, she could have anybody she wants. I suspect however, that she does not want just 'anybody'. The signs are there. She has remained resolutely single to date. A strong and powerful woman like Aoife needs an equally strong and powerful man, one she can look up to, an equal." He had his brothers full attention now.

"It's your hand she's been holding, if I'm not mistaken Mycroft, and it's you she's let in enough to cause her hurt this evening. Now go and apologise, for heaven's sake." he directed his final comment at his brother's rapidly disappearing back, "or I'll tell the PM that I'm not the Holmes that's jeopardising Anglo Irish relations."

Job done, he extinguished his cigarette and returned to his microscope. Molly Hooper, along with everyone else, had watched Mycroft's speedy traverse through the room and heard his footsteps flying up the staircase. Leaning into her consulting detectives ear, she whispered huskily, "you, Sherlock Holmes, are on a promise." Sherlock grinned like a cheshire cat and adjusted the position of the glass slide.


	19. The Irish Connection

Chapter 19

Mycroft reached Aoife's bedroom door, took a deep breath and knocked on it firmly. There was a brief silence and then he heard her footsteps approaching on the wooden floor. She opened the door and studied him, considering whether to admit him and then sighed and gestured for him to enter. He watched her as she walked over to her bed, admiring the fluidly graceful confidence of her movements as she crossed the floor. 'She walks in beauty..' he thought, and gave himself a mental slap on the back of the head. Christ, this Irishwoman had him quoting Byron now. Aoife sat on the side of her bed and reached down to put on a running shoe. He was about to launch into a fulsome apology when he hesitated, suddenly comprehending what she was planning. She had changed into running gear, which was fine in itself; she had a treadmill, so that was not what had sent alarm bells shrieking through his psyche. No, his increased blood pressure was directly related to the high visibility running jacket, lying on the bed beside her, that she was about to wear.

"What the hell do you think you're doing Aoife Quinn?" he demanded. Sharp green eyes glared up at him as she continued to lace up her runner.

"Seriously? That's your opener? she said, and picked up the other shoe. "Not how I'd have approached it".

"Aoife, you cannot be thinking of going outside for a run now?"

"Not that it's any of your business Mycroft Holmes, but I've told you, I don't do 'waiting' very well. We have hours to go before we launch." Mycroft watched her as she tugged sharply on her laces. Her hair shown like polished amber as it fell across her face. She was simmering with fury. He'd never seen anyone as shatteringly beautiful in his life.

"May I approach, Aoife?" he asked softly. Her hands stilled momentarily and she nodded her head, still examining her laces, and refusing to look at him. He walked over and sat beside her on the bed.

"I'm sorry Aoife," he addressed the crown of her head. She was nothing if not stubborn. "My behaviour downstairs was crass and unacceptable and I truly regret it. Please, forgive me." She gave her lace a final tug, tilted her head up to look at him, and relented. She sat up and turned to face him, pursing her lips in a half smile.

"Alright then," she simply said, and he expelled a relieved breath. She reached her hand back between them to grab her jacket but he intercepted it and gripped it hard. Their joined hands hovered combatively over the jacket.

"Aoife please! It's not safe. You know it isn't!" She struggled to free her hand but he held on to it firmly. He was deceptively strong, astonishingly so. Her face drew tantalising close to his and her breathing turned rapid and shallow. She gulped, and licked her top lip, and he saw, and knew then that he had her.

"Well then," she challenged, "have you any better ideas?" fixing her eyes on his.

"One or two" he replied, giving her his most predatory smile. Aoife pushed him backwards on her bed, crawled on top of him and gripped his face in her hands.

"Then show me!" she demanded.

He pulled her into him, finally running his fingers through her magnificent bloody hair. As he drew her mouth down towards his with one hand he gripped the heel of her running shoe with the other, pulled it off her foot and tossed it away. Holding her firmly in place he gripped the other shoe and it followed it's predecessor onto the floor.

"Oh, I fully intend to." he replied, and lifted his head to claim her mouth.


	20. The Irish Connection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me guys. I've had requests to up the ratings but I know I have some young teenage readers, (one related to me!) so I'll be sticking with the current rating. I kind of like building the scene and letting our imaginations do the rest anyway...so, onwards!

Chapter 20

Sherlock examined the sample evidence slide by slide. He was not totally confident of making a break in the case from the evidence gathered in the warehouse. Although he had discovered hair strands in Molly's cardigan, he already knew they were from Molly's own head. On the plus side, Aoife's resources appeared to be unlimited. Along with the microscope and other lab equipment, she had provided a state of the art DNA biotechnology synthesiser, fully calibrated and ready to go. Molly had salivated at the sight of it. 'Oísín Holdings' clearly had a high tech pharmaceutical division. Molly had 'volunteered' a hair follicle so they could compare her sample with the evidence samples. It was a foregone conclusion, though a painstaking process of elimination was required.

He was hoping to find a piece of forensic evidence linking Sinead Moriarty (Janine) to the earlier crime scenes, from when she was younger, before Jim Moriarty, the consulting criminal genius, had taught her the art of cover up, or, if he got really lucky, to discover evidence that may assist in locating her current hide out. Sherlock concurred with his brothers hypothesis. Janine's plan had been rushed forward because of his exile. Maybe there was a chance she had been careless. Using her brother to assassinate Molly tonight was a case in point. Clearly the other twin was the family idiot. He did have hair and cellular samples from him though, so that was useful. But it wasn't a lead.

He weighed through the samples, slide by slide, but there was nothing of specific importance coming from the cardigan evidence. He moved on then to the doll. The doll itself was from a well known manufacturer and was on sale in most tourist sites and offices in Ireland. The tar used was generic to every major builders supplier too so nothing of any evidential value could be gained from it. He moved on to the feathers but sighed in frustration. They had been washed and bleached, feathers extracted from a duvet, pillow or quilt and untraceable. Sinead had been a diligent student. The dagger she'd used, and he knew it was her, to metaphorically stab Molly through the heart, was also clean as a whistle.

Sherlock leaned back on his stool, sighing loudly, and ruffled his hair aggressively. He felt like throwing the bloody doll across the room. Truthfully, the glaring slit through the heart of Molly's endearingly awful cardigan had achieved it's objective. He was rattled. His most enduring image of her wearing it was on the night of 'the Fall', as she'd helped to save him. He jolted up in his seat. Of course! That was the whole point of targeting this particular garment of Molly's. She knew it was Molly that had helped him. It was another message and his chest clenched. Molly wasn't just a target to get to him. Janine/Sinead hated Molly too and fully intended killing her. Tension soared through him and he rested his chin on his steepled fingers, searching for a solution.

Suddenly he felt Molly's warm body lean against his back and he looked down as her arms wrapped around him from behind. Then he felt the weight of her head as she rested it between his shoulder blades. Covering her hands with his own he lowered his head, closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and exhaled. He could feel the tension flowing out of him. How did she always know? he wondered to himself. How did she always see him? He lifted her broken hand and slowly kissed each knuckle. He nodded his head and she released him.

Detective Michael Reilly had watched the tender interactions of the English 'Consulting Detective' and his petite pathologist. They were an extraordinary couple in an extraordinary group. Sherlock Holmes clearly loved that little woman and you'd be an idiot to not see how worried he was about her safety. He felt a twinge of embarrassment that the threats against them were from an Irish national. He determined that nothing would happen to any of them on his watch and in his country.

In a last ditch effort, Sherlock pulled the magnifying light across the desk and held the doll underneath it. He rotated the doll's head, looking for the slightest of trace evidence, but there was nothing. Molly was standing beside him now, quiet and observant. He shook his head in exasperation. "There's nothing here!" he complained. She slid a pair of surgical scissors along the counter to him.

"Cut off the dress and check it, you'll never know," she suggested. He shrugged but then lay the doll flat on the table and gripped the green velvet fabric with a forceps to hold it in place. He picked up the scissors and cut deftly and meticulously into the fabric, from the bottom hem to the neckline. As he went to cut the tiny sleeve from the dolls arm, it shifted slightly.

"Michael, I require your assistance." Sherlock announced and held out a fresh pair of surgical gloves. "Legal impracticalities dictate that Molly is not allowed to have direct contact with this evidence. Please put these on and hold this doll firmly without touching the dress." As Michael complied Sherlock added, "do bear in mind, Detective, that fortunately for my line of work, there are murderous psychopaths in every country in the world. I will concede however, that yours are particularly talented." Michael stared at him in astonishment and looked enquiringly at John, who was grinning at their interactions.

"He reads minds?"

"Yep mate, so be careful what you think around him!" Michael laughed.

"Well, there is one thing that I can do better than the great detective."

"No there isn't." Sherlock retorted immediately.

"Oh there really is, me boyo!" Michael quipped "and no, I'm not talking about romance." He now had Sherlock's complete attention. He scanned him and smirked.

"Challenge accepted, my friend. Prepare yourself for a 'playoff'. I'll ask Aoife to host one of your traditional 'sessions' for everyone involved in assisting us as soon as this case is resolved. Mycroft can pay. I suspect he'll be in a very good mood and wont mind. You bring your violin and I'll sort one here. The audience will decide the winner. That will be to your advantage, considering its your territory, and our countries are natural rivals, but you'll need one, so it's fair. Anyway, Ireland have been far too successful at rugby lately. I need to restore balance to the universe." Michael erupted in laughter.

"Oh you're on!"

Mary mouthed "I'll manage the betting" to her delighted husband.

"Right, back to battle," Sherlock said and Michael sobered and held the doll carefully in place with the forceps. The upper arms of the dresses' sleeves were puffed out in design. Sherlock, with surgical precision, snipped through the sleeve. Something dropped out of it and onto the table. Something tiny, about one and a half millimetre squared. Molly gasped and Sherlock and Michael froze. "Oh! Michael exclaimed, "It must have slipped in there via the collar. What is it?"

"Oh, it's a piece of a shell!" she exclaimed. John and Mary approached them then.

"Maybe," said Sherlock, "quiet please everybody. Give me a second." He carefully placed the tiny piece onto a slide and examined it under the microscope. He frowned at it. Closing his eyes he delved into his 'Mind Palace'. He'd seen this before. Hundreds of different images of shells, crustaceans, and sea sands flashed through his memory and then he froze. He laughed and jumping backwards, he clapped his hands with glee.

"Michael, John, we're going to Galway, now, tonight! Mary, get that list of cottages. Find one on the Galway coast. I know it's there. Quickly Mary!" Mary grabbed the list and flattened it on the table. She rapidly scanned the addresses page by page. Then she stopped, looked up at him and shaking her head in wonder she beamed at him.

"Don't tell me Mary, let me guess. Trá an Dóilín, is located near the village of Carraroe, in the West of Ireland".

"Carraroe, yes Sherlock, oh go on, tell us, how the hell did you get that from a piece of shell?"

"Not shell Mary, coral. The beach is noted for its very fine "coral". Contrary to the English name, Coral Strand, the beach is actually made of a coralline algae known as 'maerl'. This type of beach, biogenic gravel, is rare and of great conservation importance. What is crucially and stunningly significant for this case however, it that it is utterly unique to that small beach in the West of Ireland." With a delighted grin he swept his arm out towards the tiny sample on the glass slide.

"Ladies and gentlemen, meet Maerl!"


	21. The Irish Connection

Chapter 21

Clapping his hands again with excitement Sherlock barked out orders as he headed towards the door. "Michael, can you get the Land Rover keys from Aoife? No Garda cars. Do not send any local police near that cottage. She'll spot them a mile away. We have to get there ahead of the raids. She'll flee as soon as they start. That's when we grab her. You'll need your gun. You too John. Hurry now, it's over three hours to Galway and it's already past eight o'clock. We have to get going." He ran half way up the staircase and yelled "Mycroft and Aoife, time's up. Stop whatever you're doing and get out here!"

Molly ran past him up the staircase. "I'll just grab my jacket." He frowned at her retreating back as she headed towards their bedroom. A prestine Mycroft Holmes stepped out of Aoife's bedroom, straightening his tie, and raised an equiring brow at his brother.

"You've found her then?" Sherlock nodded.

"She's in Galway. I'm heading there now with John and Michael. Mary'll fill you in properly. Keep in touch Mycroft, we'll need to sychronise. She'll flee as soon as she realises the scale of our operations tonight. Wait until she goes into her bank accounts!" he laughed. Moving past his brother he paused and cleared his throat. "Take care of Molly please Mycroft. She's still in a lot of pain and, well, I suspect she's not going to be too happy with me." Mycroft nodded in acknowlegement at him.

"I'll guard her with my life Sherlock," he promised, and made his way down the stairs. Sherlock sighed and went into his bedroom. Molly had her jacket on and was holding his coat in her arms. She beamed at him and marched across the floor towards him.

"Here's your coat. I was bringing it to you," she said.

"Molly..,"

"What Sherlock?, tell me on the way, we have to get going!" she exclaimed, moving past him to grab the door handle.

"You're not coming Molly," he stated quietly but firmly. She stared at him in astonishment and then narrowed her eyes at him.

"What do you mean? Yes I am going!" she snapped at him and he sighed heavily.

"Not a chance in hell, Molly. I'm sorry but you're staying here." She stared at him and he could see her temper rising.

"Dont you bloody dare tell me what to do, or where I can or cannot go! I'm the one that bitch attacked, I have every right to go and you can't stop me!"

"Dr Hooper! you are a five foot four forensic pathologist! You have no experience in combat, firearms or field work. You also have a target on your back. I cannot protect you properly and quite frankly, you'll be an encumberance! You are not coming and that is final!" Her eyes flashed with hurt and she hurled his coat at him.

"Fine then, off you go. I can't force you to bring me with you. I'll go myself." She folded her arms tightly, and turning her back to him, she stropped over to the bedroom window and stared out of it into the darkness.

"So help me Molly, if I have to get Aoife to take you into protective custody, I will! Be reasonable and think for a second!" He sighed in frustration. "John is a trained soldier, Michael is a Garda Detective and I'm, well, me. Anyway, I need you here. The samples from the exhumations should be here first thing in the morning and you're the only one I trust to analyse them properly!." He paused and softened his tone. "That's how you'll get her Molly, and you're bloody brilliant at it. Without you pushing me earlier to go further, to cut the doll's dress, we'd be none the wiser about where she's been hiding. Please Molly?"

"Just go then," she muttered. Sherlock waited a beat but she wouldn't turn around. He pulled his coat on determinedly, and opening the door, he left the room. He was livid. She was being ridiculous and now he had an extra concern that she'd leave the sanctuary of Aoife's home and follow them. Nor had she said goodbye and that bothered him far more than he'd care to admit.

He observed the bustling scene in large hall. The front door was open and their car was parked on the gravelled driveway in front of the house. John embraced Mary and ordered her to get some rest. "Yes John, I will," she said demurely and Sherlock bit back a sardonic smile. He knew she had no intention of it. John kissed her and headed out to the car. Michael finished briefing Aoife and after she shook his hand, he turned and swiftly exited the house too. He sat into the drivers seat and started the engine. Aoife turned to Sherlock and intially held out her hand, then withdrew it and pulled him in for a brief hug. He returned her embrace fondly. He liked this woman and it was clear that she would be of significance to his family now. She stepped back then and still gripping his arms, she met his eyes and said, "thank you Sherlock, for everything. Please be careful, ok?" He nodded his head

"Will you do something for me, Aoife? Keep a sharp eye on Molly please. She is angry with me for insisting on her remaining here and she may do a runner. Please ensure this does not happen."

"Of course I will Sherlock. She cannot leave. Not tonight. I'm sorry to do it but I'll have to alert the guards. She won't get past the gate." His smile was a little forced but he nodded at her and stepped towards the door. Then he heard Molly's footsteps behind him racing down the stairs.

"That won't be necessary Aoife. Sherlock! wait, please?" Sherlock stood rigid and still but he wouldn't turn around to look at her. Aoife discreetly left them to it.

"Sherlock, will you look at me, please?" He heard her ask timidly, a slight quiver in her voice. He set his lips tightly and turned to look at her. She paled at the grim expression on his face, at his body so stiff with anger. Her eyes filled with unshed tears and she bit into her bottom lip.

"I'm so sorry Sherlock. You're right, of course you are. I don't know what I was thinking. I just got carried away and I, well, I wanted to be with you..., please don't leave when you're so angry with me. I'm really sorry." Sherlock's anger melted away at her words. He exhaled deeply and tilting his head, he smiled at her tenderly. Then, as he'd done so often in the last day or so, he held out his arms to Molly Hooper.

"Get up here Molly," he instructed firmly and she broke into that bloody smile, the one that undid him every damn time. She launched herself at him then and lept high in his arms. Sherlock gripped her and gathered her into him tightly. She swung her legs around his hips, under his open coat, and hugged her arms tightly around his neck, pressing her cheek against his. He felt hot tears and then her lips on his neck and his heart lurched in his chest.

"Don't cry Molly please! I'm sorry I got angry, really, I am, I overreacted and it didn't help. You're not an 'encumbrance,' you never could be. It's just that the thought of losing you is, well, it terrifies me." His lips moved along her cheek and he kissed the rapid pulse behind her ear. "I'm not used to it," he professed, "the strength of these... feelings. Those long minutes until we reached Barts, and then trying to locate you, were the worst of my life." He moved his head back to look at her.

"I can't go through that again Molly, especially not when I can prevent it, but you have to help me to protect you. Don't you see?" She inhaled shakily and nodded her head and he kissed her deeply on the lips. "It's not for long my darling. We'll get her, I promise you, and then we can relax." She rested her forehead on his and let out a shuddering breath.

"I do see Sherlock. I do, I promise." She tilted her head then and kissed him softly."I'll miss you." He chuckled and kissed her back. "I'll only be gone for the night, Molly, should be back by lunch."

"Exactly." She slid down out of his arms. "Who's going to help me undress and tuck me in?" He mock frowned at her then replied sternly,

"Just so long as it's not bloody Mycroft, Molly!" and she giggled and then leaned up to stroke his face. He kissed into her palm and murmured into it,

"I have to go now Molly, they're waiting in the car."

"I know. Please be careful ok?" and she stepped back from him. He winked and smiled at her and flicking his collar up, he strode to the door. She watched his lissom gait as he moved away from her and her breath caught at the beauty of him.

"God, I love you," she barely whispered, but he's Sherlock Holmes and he heard her and stopped dead. He swept around and strode back to her and grasped her face between his long hands. He leaned down to her and kissed her lips with everything he had in his heart. He dropped a final kiss on her forehead and walked back to the door. As he stepped onto the porch step he turned back to look at her, at her huge brown eyes glistening at him, and smiling gently, he called back to her,

"Aoife has a phone charger for you. Do get it from her and plug the damn thing in. It is unacceptable to me not to have direct contact with the woman I love." Then he turned and got into the car. Molly gasped and then laughed disbelievingly. She ran to the door to watch them leave, eyes brimming with happy tears. She stood there and waited until the car disappeared out of sight down the long driveway before she closed it. As the huge electric gates began to shut behind them John opened his mouth to comment.

"Took your time mate!" and Sherlock knew he wasn't referring to his delay in joining them.

"Do shut up John!" Sherlock instructed from the front passenger seat but at he same time he turned to look at his best friend and smiled broadly at him. John grinned delightedly back at him. Michael cleared his throat and Sherlock quipped, "and before you say a word Detective Reilly, how's that lovely policewoman that took such good care of Molly at the warehouse?" Michael swung his head around and gaped at him in astonishment.

"Jaysus! seriously!, how?"

John snorted with laughter and Michael began to laugh too. Sherlock smirked widely and turned to look out the window, but as the powerful car swept through the darkness towards the motorway to Galway, all he could see was his Molly.


	22. The Irish Connection

Chapter 22

The journey from Dublin to Galway normally takes three hours to drive. Michael managed it in under two and a half. The new motorway was quiet at that hour of the night and normal speed limits did not apply. He only slowed when they passed the outskirts of Galway City and hit the smaller national road to Carraroe. Sherlock checked the co-ordinates for the cottage location. Google maps proved to be a very useful resource. The traditional two story Irish farmhouse cottage was so idyllic it almost made him wince. It was typical bloody Janine. Whitewashed with a thatched roof it was deceptive on first observation. Steeped in history, the cottage listed Lady Gregory, founding member of the landmark Abbey Theatre in Dublin, and close friend of W.B. Yeats, as a previous owner. Appearantly it was where she housed her maid. It was over one hundred and fifty years old and it had recently been completely renovated. The location itself was charming. It was set on the side of the Coral Strand. Without gates or boundary walls, you could step out of the front door and onto the beach. He was sure the views were outstanding.

The location was clever for another reason. Similar to Brittas Bay, the area was a was a major tourist attraction. It was situated in the middle of the 'Wild Atlantic Way,' and holiday homes accounted for over fifty percent of the housing usage on the peninsula. 'Janine' could have adopted any persona she chose, visited as frequently as she chose, and nobody would have found it in any way unusual. Michael noted wryly that broadband would not have been an issue for that peninsula, even in such a remote area, as they'd been piloted as part of a national roll out plan years before. The low boundary walls of the cottage, only three feet high so as not to spoil the sea views, would be a problem, Sherlock cautioned. She would notice any vehicle approaching, particularly at night in so rural a location, so they decided to park the car about a kilometre away, in the carpark of a nearby hotel, and walk. They still had plenty of time.

Meanwhile in Wicklow, plans were progressing nicely. Mycroft and Aoife were back at the helm in the operations room. Reports were flooding in from all over their two nations, well, five really, if you broke it down. In secret locations all over Ireland, Northern Ireland, Scotland, England and Wales, armed teams were gathering. Data was now rolling in constantly. All targets were now under full surveillance and intelligence from the field indicated that they were still completely undetected. The Irish Army had not been idle. A wide ring had been circled around selected holiday parks within a five mile radius of Aoife's manor house. Mycroft had made that call. The twin was fool enough to sit on her doorstep. He suspected that he hadn't acted alone and he wanted any further threats neutralised. Aoife received a text. The army had the parks surrounded and were waited on her signal. She looked up at this calm and oh so capable man and he simply nodded his head at her. Aoife tapped out a responding text, plain and to the point. 'Move In'.

Mycroft observed Molly as she worked on the 'idiot's' DNA test. She was smiling and quietly humming to herself. He couldn't help grinning at her and she caught it and raised two cheekily speculative brows at him.

"You can talk, Mycroft Holmes!" and Aoife laughed heartily with Molly. Mycroft affected a deep sigh.

"Ah, the conspiring begins.."

"You Holmes boys haven't a chance!" Mary quipped and although Mycroft and Aoife laughed and went back to work, Molly's smile slipped. Mary noticed and her heart sank, realising then that she knew what she'd done to Sherlock. Shame, guilt and a tinge of fear raced through Mary. Four people now were privy to her past history. This was getting out of hand. She knew Sherlock would never betray her but she would have to sound out Molly. She approached Molly and quietly asked her, "fancy a cuppa?" Molly nodded. Best get this over with, she thought.

"Good idea. We'll be back soon guys," she threw over her shoulder at Mycroft and Aoife and then turned and walked out the door to the kitchen, not waiting for Mary. Aoife raised a quizzical brow at Mycroft.

"What's going on there?" she asked him. Mycroft paused and contemplated his response carefully. This was a part of a broader issue he was going to have to hammer out with this woman if he wished to pursue a relationship with her, and he fully intended to pursue her. Aoife was no fool and he didn't want to patronise her or alienate her in any way. And he had no desire to lie to her. It was time to have 'that' conversation. He grimaced and then declared, a tad officiously, "Aoife, we need to talk."

Aoife looked at him, so quintessentially English establishment on the surface, fathoms more to him underneath, as she'd begun to discover earlier. She knew about him, knew that Sherlock's defining him as 'The British Government' was pretty close to reality. He was the smartest man she'd ever met but he did not intimidate her. He fascinated her, and that was rare. He attracted and excited her and that was even rarer. She wanted this, whatever this was and she hoped he did too. She smiled at him, amused at his sudden discomfort. She was way ahead of him this time so she was going to take advantage of it. She stood far too close to his chair and grinned mischievously.

"Was it something I said?" she enquired coquettishly, stroking a wayward hand down his cheek and then she managed to momentarily shock him, by climbing up onto his lap, straddling his thighs in the deep leather office chair and stroking his shoulders.

"Aoife please! This is highly inappropriate!" But he was laughing at her now, delighted with her boldness and he pulled her into a tight embrace. She nuzzled into his neck and turning her head, kissed him deeply.

"I figure we have about twenty minutes before we're either disturbed by the patrols outside, or the ladies return, and I don't want to waste all of them talking Mycroft, so listen carefully. Firstly, I have a few questions, for context. A simple yes or no should suffice, although you may wish to expand on some answers. Are you ready?

"Is that your first question?"

"Yes or no, Mycroft!"

"Sorry, yes."

"Would you like to see me again after this case is over?"

"Yes!"

"Good. I'd like that too. Is Mary Watson a threat to the lives of the people currently in my house?"

"No."

"Is Mary Watson a threat to the national security of my country?"

"No."

"Are you aware that I've signed a copy of the Irish Official Secret's Act, 1963?" He smiled, beginning to catch her drift. He raised a bold hand towards her breast and she grabbed it and placed it back on her hip.

"Stop that! I'm not finished yet, now answer the question please!"

"Yes."

"Have you signed a copy of your country's Official Secret's Act, 1911 to 1989?"

"Yes Aoife."

"Good. Therefore, considering the sensitive nature of your work and mine, it is entirely likely that there are many things we shall be unable to discuss with each other. You may not even be able to tell me where you are or whom you are with. That is perfectly understandable. For the sake of expediency can we agree that if we cannot answer something with the truth, then we simply say so?"

"Yes." He said softly.

"Do you promise not to lie to me?" Less confident now. He held her eyes and breathed in deeply and then whispered,

"Yes."

"Will you do your best to make time for this, for us?" Her voice shook a little with that question. She knew the nature of his work and that he was constantly in demand, but if she was to travel over to London to see him, well, she didn't like waiting around. He knew that and knew he'd have to make time for her. He also knew he wanted to, very much.

"Yes, I will." He vowed. He was rewarded by a quick peck on the lips.

"Is that it, Aoife?"

"Yes."

"Good now it's my turn, 'yes or no', are you ready?"

"Yes." She wriggled on his lap.

"Stop that Aoife! First question, will you return with me to London when this is over?" She smiled happily.

"Yes."

"Will you stay in my home with me,? It's expedient and I want you with me. I don't want to waste any of our time before you need to return here."

"Yes." She agreed. He smiled, then furrowed his brow.

"Will you agree to an exclusive relationship?" She stole a kiss at that one.

"Yes."

"Will you agree to increased personal security, both here and in Britain?" She sighed heavily.

"Yes."

"Excellent! I must say this is the best negotiation session I have ever participated in." She laughed and leaned in to kiss him and he twisted his fingers into her hair, halting her progress. Raising an teasing brow and smiling slightly he told her he had just one more question.

"Well, what is it?" she demanded, patience at an end.

"May I touch you now?"

"Oh God yes!" She declared, then complained, "but we only have fifteen minutes."

"That's alright Aoife, a lot can be achieved in fifteen minutes," he drawled, and pulled her into him to demonstrate.

In the kitchen the atmosphere was far cooler. Molly had filled the kettle and pulled out the teapot to rinse. She hadn't said a word besides directing Mary to sit down at the table. Mary decided to wait for her to speak. Molly fussed with the ritual, finding the milk and sugar, and plonked a couple of mugs on the table, a little heavily, it had to be said. Mary watched, apprehension growing, and finally Molly spoke.

"Obviously, I know what you did. Before you say a word, Sherlock didn't tell me, well he did tonight, but only to confirm what I'd already realised for myself." She sucked in a deep breath, anger rising again. "You put a bullet into the man I love more than life itself, Mary, and you so nearly killed him. You actually stopped his heart from beating. You did that to Sherlock, and he is your friend, and your husband's best friend." Mary's arms were folded over her swollen tummy and her eyes were lowered with shame.

"I know and I'm sorry Molly. He wouldn't have died. I made sure of that." Molly hissed in irritation.

"I've already heard that shit from Sherlock and put him straight. I don't know who you think you are to say such a stupid thing. If you did not intend killing him you took an outrageous risk, gambling on circumstances you had absolutely no control over. So never again mention average ambulance times or any other such nonsense to excuse it." She sighed then, "That said, I actually do understand why you did it." Mary's head lifted in astonishment.

"You do?"

"Of course I do. You love John, I have absolutely no doubt about that. We all do things against our better judgement to keep our loved ones safe, or protect them from hurt or pain. I like John a lot Mary, I consider him a friend, and for two bloody years I lied to him about Sherlock, for Sherlock. It nearly killed me, lying to him and Greg, who were both mourning their friend so badly. So yes, of course I understand." Mary was crying now and Molly sat down beside her and put her arm across her shoulders.

"You saved my life tonight Mary. That git twin came here for me, to kill me, and you, you mad loon, shot him dead as calm as you like." She spluttered out a giggle then. "Way to go woman, almost nine months pregnant and beating the boys to it, sitting there as cool as a cucumber with that scum at your feet." Mary smiled weakly back at her. Molly took her hand then. "Because of your actions, I get to live. To finally be with the man I've loved for so long, for years really. I will be eternally grateful to you for that Mary Watson. I consider us even. " Mary gulped back a sob then and hugged Molly.

"I'll never hurt a hair on his head again Molly, I'd die first." Molly smiled and hugged her back.

"You'd better bloody not Mary, he has great hair." Mary spluttered out a laugh then grinned at her.

"He really does, doesn't he? I'll deny ever saying that, by the way!" The two women smiled at each other, friends again. Mary wiggled her eyebrows conspiratorially at Molly."

"Come on spill, I'm dying to know. How good a kisser is he?" Molly giggled and then widened her eyes and mock-wiped her brow with the back of her hand.

"Oh my God, I knew it! Wait 'til I tell John, he's going to be so pissed off!" and they both roared laughing as Molly made the tea.


	23. The Irish Connection

Chapter 23

In the cosy living room of her cottage in Carraroe, Sinead Moriarty checked her phone again but she knew it was futile. There was no word from her brother. So he'd failed, and had been captured or killed. She quashed the surge of rage she felt rising through her. He'd insisted he was up to it, demanded he was entitled to be on the attack team, and he'd finally worn her down with his persistence. Jim may have been her brother, he'd said, but he was his twin, so revenge should rightfully be his. Anyway, he'd argued, it wasn't his team that had screwed up so badly in London. Against her better judgement, she'd conceded. Now his team at the base had reported that he had not returned and were awaiting her orders.

The plan had gone wrong, twice now, and she grinned ruefully. If Jim were alive, he'd kill her. It was all bloody Sherlock Holmes fault too. If he hadn't killed Magnussen so suddenly, things wouldn't have had to be pushed forward before she was quite ready. She reluctantly acknowledged to herself that it was also true that if Sherlock hadn't killed him, she'd still be stuck having to pretend to be that slimey git's bloody PA, and still doing his dirty work for him. Somehow, probably through an informer, Magnussen had discovered her true identity, and then he had her bang to rights. As was his wont, he'd blackmailed her. Until she could find his evidence, and without the protection of her beloved Jim, she'd had no choice but to work for him. Although, she conceded, organising John Watson's abduction and bonfire experience had been an unexpected perk of the job.

She sighed out loud. It had been an incredibly difficult few years. Jim's death had heralded the beginning of the rot. Holmes was good, she'd give him that. For the first harrowing three months or so after he'd killed Jim, she really did believe that he was dead himself, that he'd jumped of the roof. All the signs were there. There were plenty of witnesses and his snivelling friend, John Watson, was obviously deeply grieving. Admittedly, she had been off her game, grieving badly herself for her beloved brother. Then things began to go to shit in Europe and Asia. Month by month operations were failing. Contracts were pulled, clients either arrested, disappeared or killed. Jim's network was vast, and it was crumbling, piece by piece. So, she'd looked into her brother's death and surrounding events of that awful day until she found the minute detail that had revealed all.

The body of the lookalike Jim had hired to impersonate Sherlock Holmes had been moved from the morgue of the small local hospital in the East End to St Bartholomew's Hospital morgue. Dr Molly Hooper had signed the transfer papers. Dr Molly Hooper had performed Sherlock Holmes's autopsy. Of course she bloody had, the love-sick cow. But while Sinead had been under the thumb of Magnussen she'd been powerless to act. When 'Mary Morsten' befriended her, trying to get leverage on the blackmailing mogul, she was deeply amused and delightedly played along. Then Sherlock did his 'Lazerus', resurfacing from Eastern Europe and before long the merry dance between them had begun too. She smiled coldly at the memory. He'd had no idea who she was, because he was too bloody conceited to look past her giddy, smitten girlfriend act. But Sherlock couldn't quite complete his performance of the loving boyfriend. He'd avoided 'sealing the deal,' and she'd wondered why, until one night, when he actually did sleep beside her, she found out. He moaned Molly's name in his sleep. That moment she knew how she would distroy him.

Janine flicked the curtain back and looked outside. It was quiet but she was feeling uneasy now. John, if he was still alive, would certainly betray her. He was always the weak one, always a liability, but Jim wouldn't be told. He was Jim's only blind spot. She decided to lie low in the sand dunes across from her home and keep an observe her property from there. She pulled on a warm black coat and slid her gun, keys, wallet and two mobile phones into its deep pockets, keeping her hands free. She left the light on and put more coal on the fire so it would look like the occupants were settled in for the evening. She had no reason to believe that they had any idea of the location of her cottage but she wouldn't put anything past Sherlock, or his bloody brother. She stepped out into the darkness and headed for the dunes. As she bunkered down she received another text from John's team in Wicklow. 'Army's everywhere. We're surrounded.'

Sinead could feel the icy rage rising within her. This was Aoife Bloody Quinn and the Holmes boys. She had no doubt. They were working together which meant Mycroft was in Wicklow too. She ripped the phone apart and pulled out the battery and the sim card. They'd trace the signal to here but she should have at least a half hour head start. Just as she moved to rise she saw the outline silhouette of three men in the far distance walking towards her home and then suddenly drop out of sight. The brief glimpse was enough. It was Sherlock. She'd know that bloody coat anywhere. He'd found her. Then she gritted her teeth. What else had he found? The answer came to her immediately. Everything. He had found everything.

Then she felt it again, the familiar icly calm that would descend over her and quash the rage, help her to plot and think. She knew what she had to do now. She would finish this. Killing Sherlock was pointless, it wasn't enough. Jim had wanted him alive and suffering, and for that to happen, Molly Hooper had to die. If she could take out a few more of his 'family' too, then all the better. She ducked down and considered her options. She couldn't get to her car and anyway, it was too slow. She wanted to get to Wicklow quickly and avoid roadblocks. She knew the endgame was fast approaching. Then she heard the IRCG Sikorsky S-92 air sea rescue helicopter flying low over the coast and descending to the base a mile up the road and she smiled in satisfaction. She wouldn't be scaling any walls on that persistent cow's fortified property in Wicklow. She'd land on that bitches lawn.

Sherlock scanned the house from behind the perimeter wall. On the surface it looked innocent enough. Lamplight illuminating the living room window, smoke coming from the chimney and car parked in the drive. The scene was too perfect. She was gone. He was sure of it. He hissed in exasperation and standing up, he strode to the front door and began to pick the lock.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, "what are you doing?"

"I guess she'd not in," Michael responded, and leapt to his feet. John shrugged and followed him through the door after Sherlock. Michael ran up the stairs and Sherlock and John searched the ground floor. Taking note of the fire, banked up so recently with coal, Sherlock called up the stairs after Michael,

"She's not gone long Michael, come back down, she's on the move and I'll warrant she's making her way to Wicklow now! It's a bloody wild goose chase!" He was totally frustrated and could feel anxiety creeping through his chest. She was going after Molly, now, tonight. Michael clambered back down the stairs.

"She didn't stop to pack, her stuff's all over the bedroom."

"No, she left in a hurry. Think man, we have to get back quickly, the car's too slow. She's after Molly and has nothing to lose. We have to get ahead of her." Sherlock tugged his hair in agitation, then whirled around to ask Michael "Where's the nearest Garda helicopter?" Michael grinned and pulled out his phone.

"Hello, Aoife?, do us a favour boss, it's kind of urgent!" While he was organising the logistics with Aoife, Sherlock called Mycroft and warned him to be alert, armed and to keep Molly by his side until he got back. Then he asked him to pass the phone over to her.

"Sherlock?" She sounded shy and he smiled.

"Hello Molly, how are you?"

"I'm fine Sherlock, what's happening, did you find the poxy cow?" Sherlock chuckled deeply.

"Don't hold back Molly, say how you really feel!" and she laughed too.

"She's not there, is she?" She stated, rather than asked, and he thought once again how smart she really was.

"No, we were too late, by minutes, I suspect."

"Now what?" she asked him, quiet voiced.

"Now, you stay in the same room as Mycroft and Mary until I get back. If you need to, em, relieve yourself, Mary goes with you. Promise me Molly."

"I promise." she declared, softly and firmly.

"Good.., good." There was a pause.

"Sherlock?" she sounded slightly hesitant.

"Yes Molly?"

"The body this evening has the same DNA as Jim Moriarty. You were right all along. they were identical twins, but he's definitely not Jim."

"The fingerprints?" She laughed then.

"Yes genius! Jim's fingerprints were taken when he was arrested. Michael took 'John's fingerprints earlier and I did a comparison. They don't match."

"See Molly? You're brilliant!" he exclaimed, and then paused momentarily and added, voice deep with nuance, "whatever would I do without you?" and she swallowed a lump in her throat.

"I'm not going anywhere, Sherlock. I'm staying right here and I'm waiting for you." she said softly.

"Promise?" he asked her again, his voice catching on that one word. Molly bit her lip. God almighty! he had her tearing up again.

"I promise," she whispered. There was another pause for a second, and Aoife's voice in the background, and then she was back. "Aoife says to make your way to the beach, the helicopter will be there in about five minutes. It's already taken off from Galway."

He motioned to his two friends, as that was what Michael was fast becoming, to head towards the beach. He kept on talking to her as they began to move, for long and vital minutes, giving his Molly specific instructions and loving reassurances, and she acknowledged them and heard what he said. Then as they were winding up the call she simply stated,

"She's coming for me, isn't she?" He thought about lying to her but dismissed it immediately and said instead,

"Yes Molly, she is." He inhaled deeply and then added determinedly, "but darling..., so am I."

Then he said goodbye to her before his voice was drowned out by the thunderous clamour of the whirling blades of the Garda helicopter as it appeared overhead, it's powerful searchlight beaming onto the beach as it lowered to land. The men scrambled on board and in seconds the pilot from the Irish Air Corps had them back up in the air and heading east. The men were thoughtful and pensive as they raced through the night sky and then the pilot receive a communication from the operations room in Wicklow. He passed a set of headphones back to Sherlock. His brothers calm and authoritative voice informed him that approximately ten minutes ago a female suspect had burst into the remote station of the air sea rescue aerodrome, shot a paramedic to 'get their attention,' taken a pilot hostage, and hijacked their helicopter.

"What type of helicopter Mycroft, the make?" he asked urgently. Mycroft responded without needing to confer with Aoife and she raised an incredulous brow at him. Sherlock raced through the data on both models in seconds. The IRCG Sikorsky S-92 air sea rescue helicopter was a heavy, sturdy vehicle, it had to be to hold it's own in wild Atlantic storms. It had a cruising speed of 137 knots or 158mph. The EC 135 T1 Garda helicopter was lighter and faster and a cruising speed of 170mph. Sherlock had no intention of 'cruising' either. He instructed the pilot to push it to full speed. The weather was with them too. They'd get there at least ten minutes ahead of her.


	24. The Irish Connection

Chapter 24

Mycroft hung up the phone to his brother and swiftly surveyed the room. Molly was wide eyed at this latest news and Mary, well Mary had just returned from yet another lengthy excursion to the bathroom and was currently checking her weapon. Aoife strode determinedly over to a cabinet and unlocking it, pulled out boxes of ammunition. Smiling at Mycroft's raised brow she shrugged and said "I was a girl guide Mycroft. I had more than one reason to note the make and serial numbers of your firearms! God! was that only yesterday? Mary rolled her eyes at her, grinning, and held a palm out for supplies. Aoife plonked a box of bullets into her hand. Mycroft smirked too and, pulling his Browning from his waistcoat, he held out his hand for ammo too. This case was fast becoming a 'ten' on his brother's evaluation scale. Molly serupticiously slipped a scalpel into her lab coat pocket. Then, as per Sherlocks instructions, she slipped another one under her cast. It nestled comfortably beneath her hand, concealed between the sling and the hard cast. Aoife sat down and linking into Garda Headquarters, she typed in instructions. A minute later a detailed map of the Irish midlands, with two tiny blue blobs slowly transversing across it, popped open on a monitor screen. "Oh there you are, you bitch", she muttered, as she pointed to the one bringing up the rear.

"Clever you Aoife, there goes her element of surprise." He noticed Molly chewing her bottom lip in apprehension and beckoned her over. Pulling out a chair for her, he pointed at the leading blue identifying marker moving slowly along the map. "Do me a favour Molly. Keep an eye on Sherlock." She lit up in a smile and after planting a quick kiss on his cheek, she sat down and stared at the screen. Mycroft raised an enquiring eyebrow at Mary. "How are you doing, Mrs Watson?" She looked intently back at him and said nothing. He tilted his head up questioningly and she raised one hand, palm up 'five' and quickly dropped it again. Then she placed her index finger over her lips. Her silent communications were alarmingly clear. Mary Watson's waters had broken and she'd had her first contraction five minutes ago. She then tapped her hand on her wrist, indicating that she would time her contractions. Hopefully, he thought, she still had hours to go.

Aoife's mobile phone broke the silence and, answering it, she listened intently, after which she gave firm and specific directions to the army captain on the other end. "Send them up to Dublin and keep them in custody, they can be of no further help tonight. Captain, I need you and your men to get to my home now and add to our protection detail. We are expecting an imminent attack, an invasion, if you will, probably from the air. The lone female suspect has commandeered an air sea rescue helicopter. She is armed and dangerous. Do not open fire on the helicopter, the pilot is a hostage. A Garda helicopter is also in the air and on it's way to support us, with four men on board. I have twelve of my own security team on site, in clearly marked uniforms, and three civilian guests, one male, two female. My um 'guests' also have their own security detail, all male. There are armed Gardaí around the perimeter of my property and patrolling the local roads. I need your assistance to cover the beach, and reinforce the surrounding territory, and I need it immediately." The army captain acknowledged his orders, terminated the call and scrambled his troops.

Mycroft nodded at her, "they caught the 'idiots' back up team? and she smiled her answer, then broke into a laugh. "They surrendered immediately. They were in a prominent businessman's private holiday home, and had his place lit up like Grafton Street on Christmas Eve! Apparently John Moriarty had broken into his best brandy at some point too. Quite a story for that gentleman's barbeque parties this summer!" Then she added softly "that's down to you Mycroft. I'd never of thought to search there. Thank you". He smiled and then they both checked the monitors again. 'Operation Oisin' was one hour away from a 'go' and everything was running like clockwork. The armed teams were primed and ready.

There was just a couple of minor problems to deal with first, Mycroft mused. A psychopathic killer was on her way, in what could potentially be a weapon of mass destruction, should she decide to simply smash the helicopter into the house. Although Mycroft knew that desperate people were usually the most dangerous, he dismissed that scenario as most unlikely almost immediately. Sinead Moriarty would want to see Molly die for herself, preferably with Sherlock watching. He reviewed the situation status once again. Even though Mary was in labour, the last thing he wanted to do was move her anywhere else at the moment. It was a far from ideal situation though. Mary was in her late thirties and this was her first pregnancy. Although things appeared to be going smoothly, it was very early. It was undoubtedly a risk. For now, he decided, the best scenario was to stay put in this house. Molly's medical training may be required as a back up but her services would probably not be necessary as John was now only twenty minutes away. He could examine her and make an informed decision then. In all likelihood, Dr Watson was about to deliver his own daughter.

"Aoife," he said, "could we have a more comfortable chair for Mary?" Aoife's head swung around to look at him in alarm and then she stared at Mary. Mary smiled in weak apology.

"Sorry about this Aoife, my timing appears to be a bit off", and then doubled over with another contraction.

"Oh my God! Mary! Why didn't you say?" Molly gasped, jumping to her feet she ran to Mary's side. Mycroft assumed her position to trace the progress of the racing helicopters. As the two women tended to Mary, and Aoife's men carried a deep armchair in from the living room, he watched in relief as the Garda helicopter approached and then heard the powerful engine roar its descent onto the front lawn. He continued to watch as Sinead Moriarty's hyjacked vehicle seemed to stop moving and he frowned and just as suddenly it moved again. He pulled out his phone and texted his brother. He heard the Garda helicopter ascend again, clearing the lawn, and utilising its powerful search lights, hovering high overhead. Minutes later John and Michael rushed into the room.

"Mary Watson", John exclaimed, "can I not leave you for five minutes?". Then he ran to her and knelt at her feet, grasping her hands in his."Tell me?" As Mary began to outline the details of the onset of her labour, Molly's eyes scoured the door for Sherlock. But he never appeared.

"John," confused and alarmed, she turned her head to look at him. "Where's Sherlock?" John swung his head briefly at the door and then at her and frowned.

"I don't know Molly, he was right behind me!" She looked at him in distress and ran towards the door of the room to go in search of him when a commanding voice roared her name and halted her in her tracks. She skidded to a stop and turned to look at him in astonishment.

"What Mycroft? I have to go look for him!"

"Dr Hooper, did you, or did you not, give my brother your word that you would stay in this room with me?" Molly's head dropped with guilt, suddenly remembering her promise to Sherlock.

"Oh!, I did. I forgot Mycroft, sorry" He smiled kindly at her then.

"Sherlock is a big boy and knows what he's doing. Please don't worry about him. We both have to uphold our end of the bargain here Molly. Anyway, I rather suspect that John is going to need your assistance soon.

"You're right there Mycroft. Mary will be entering the active phase of labour soon. Molly, please don't go anywhere. I'd like to get Mary upstairs but we'd best wait until Sinead Moriarty is contained."

Mary pulled on John's arm to help her to her feet and then she began to pace slowly across the floor. Mycroft tilted his head to the side suddenly and than turned to Aoife and said simply, "she's here".

She frowned at him in confusion and then the sound of the powerful air sea rescue helicopter approaching grew louder and louder until it thundered over their heads.

"Christ, she's landing on my lawn! She lifted her pistol and looked at Mycroft, "Just going to handle a gate crasher, I wont be long" and Mycroft opened his mouth to stop her and then closed it again and fighting a primal surge of male protective hormones, he grimaced and grabbing her arms he leaned down and mouthed into her ear,

"It may be a trap, please be careful my dear, and remember, you made me a promise this evening too." She kissed him hard on the mouth and hugging him around his neck, she whispered reassuringly into his ear. Then she ran to her front door and watched the huge chopper as it hovered and then touched down on the lawn. Her men rushed to surround the aircraft, weapons drawn, and she could hear the Garda cars, sirens blaring, racing up the long driveway. Michael, gun drawn, ran towards the cockpit and dragged the heavy door open. A terrified young pilot raised his hands and begged, "don't shoot, don't shoot me please" Michael motioned to him to switch of the engines and he quickly complied. Then Michael pulled him out of the cab and onto the grass. The deafening noise abated and Garda cars surrounded the chopper, lighting it up with their headlights. Aoife, along with her back up team, slid open the railed doors of the side of the vehicle. She stared in shock. The passenger cabin was completely empty. Sinead Moriarty was gone. She cursed and shouted to the men around her,

"spread out, she's here somewhere, and remember, she's armed and dangerous. Take no chances. Shoot to kill." She sighed in relief then as she saw the army trucks racing through her gates and up the drive, with the armed soldiers jumping out before the truck even stopped and, weapons drawn, surrounded the house. She checked her watch. They were cutting it fine. Operation Oisin was due to go ahead in a half hour.

From his shadowy hiding place near the front electric gates, Sherlock watched as the Garda cars flew through the gates and up the drive. They neglected to close the gates behind them to allow the army trucks to follow. His jaw set determinedly as he watched the dark figure of Sinead Moriarty sneak through them and then edge her way along the internal perimeter walls, towards the house. She failed to notice him as he followed her.


	25. The Irish Connection

Chapter 25

Sinead Moriarty weighed up her options carefully as she edged her way towards the manor house. She had to get into their inner sanctum and locate Molly Hooper, and the rest of Sherlocks 'merry men', preferably without sustaining any injury to herself. Afterwards, well, she didn't care much about afterwards. The place was crawling with Aoife's Quinn's security, the Gardai, and now, the Irish army, no less. She grinned to herself. Jim would have enjoyed this. He loved nothing better then drama and mayhem. She rapidly evaluated her situation and decided that she could only succeed in her objective by taking a hostage for leverage. It was the only way to get through the security. So be it. She did wonder about Sherlock's whereabouts but knew how resourceful he was, and reasoned that was either here already, or very close behind her. However, she had no idea just how close he actually was. Sherlock had followed her path and was tailing her as closely as he dared. He couldn't get a clear shot of her as she weaved in and out of the trees and shrubbery, and she was getting precariously close to the house. He picked up his pace, gaining ground, and then he watched as she began to stalk two soldiers in front of her. He realised her plan and gritted his teeth in irritation. There was nothing he could do.

The two young soldiers searching ahead of Sinead had obviously never learned to look behind them. The ground was still wet from the rain the night before and, added to the clamour of the Garda helicoptors rotating blades, completely smothered the sound of her footsteps. She was on them before they knew it, and with her revolver pressed against the back of the head of one of the young soldiers, she quickly disarmed him. Fearing for the life of his partner, the second soldier didn't hesitate to toss his gun on the ground. Motioning him to walk ahead of her, she calmly directed her hostages to keep their hands up high, and maintaining a firm grip on her original captive, she steered them out onto the front lawn and moved directly under the blinding spotlight of the Garda helicopter. While all eyes were glued to the unfolding drama on the lawn, Sherlock made his way around the back. Plan B was a go.

Sinead stood tightly between the two men, using the width of their bodies as shields, and edged slowly towards the front door. Armed men scrambled to surround her, keeping a distance, but they had no clear line of fire. Aoife watched, her anxiety levels rising, as Sinead backed the two men up the granite steps. When they reached the open front door she kept her back against it and shoving the other soldier down the steps, she casually shot him in the back. With her next shot, she shattered the searchlight from the helicopter, plunging the front of the house into a temporary blackness. Then, firing a final warning shot in the air, she slammed the door behind her. She was in the house.

She scanned the long hallway. Keeping her back to the wall, and a now terrified young soldier in her grip, she swung the living room door open and scanned the interior rapidly. It was empty. Keeping her captive firmly in front of her she re entered the hall. Two armed British MI5 agents raced into it from the kitchen, weapons drawn and stopped dead, blocking the drawing room door.

" Ah, thank you gentlemen" she sneered, "I was wondering where they were all hiding, you've saved me some time." She placed the nozzle firmly against the young soldiers temple. "I'm going to blow his brains out if you do not drop your weapons and leave by the front door, now! Oh, and shut it behind you, there's jolly good chaps!"

The agents weighed up the situation. Her captive looked like he was only a boy really, about eighteen years old, and knowing her capabilities, they reluctantly complied. Hands in the air they tentatively opened the door a sliver, and shouting their identities and intentions, they left the house, closing the door behind them. Sinead pushed the soldier to the drawing room door and shouted loudly,

"I have a hostage and he's going to open this door. I suggest you put your weapons down!" Then she gestured to the soldier to open the door. He was trembling with fear now, afraid of what she'd do once she didn't need him any more. She hissed at him in anger. "Open it now or I'll use your dead body as a shield." He opened the door.

When they were both through the doorframe she pushed her hostage onto his knees and, keeping her weapon firmly at his temple, she kicked the door closed behind her. She surveyed the room rapidly. Mycroft was standing in front of Molly Hooper, using his lanky frame to shield her, and pointing his gun at her, a tad too nonchalantly for her liking, but she'd get to that. John 'annoying' Watson, also pointing a weapon at her, was blocking his far more lethal wife, which was curious, until she noticed her smothering a groan as she gripped her tummy and bent forward. Sinead laughed and said "Oh this is just brilliant! I couldn't have written this! Hurts, does it Mary? Oh good!"

She signalled for John to move away from his wife but he stood fast.

"You have one more second to comply or I will shoot her in the stomach, and you know I'm not you Mycroft, put down that bloody gun too or so help me I will shoot her anyway."

Mycroft expelled an exaggerated sigh and signalling John, they both put down their weapons. Mycroft flicked an imaginary piece of fluff from his jacket lapel. She rolled her eyes and motioned them both to kick their weapons across the floor. They did, but Mycroft's effort was a little half hearted, she thought, however it was out of his reach, so she moved on. "Now you Mary," she directed. Mary cocked a sardonic brow at her.

"Seriously 'Janine?', I'm in labour here. I'm officially on maternity leave!"

"You'll be on permanent leave if you do not remove that revolver from behind your back and throw it across the floor, right now, Mary', or whoever the fuck you are!"

Mary shrugged nonchalautly, and retrieving her weapon from the side of the seat, she slid it across the floor, breathing deeply with the effort.

Sinead motioned to the two men."On your knees, hands behind your back," Mycroft sighed heavily again, like this was all a great effort, and then the two men did as she asked. As her protector knelt down, Molly came fully into view.

"Oh there you are, my pet," Sinead purred. "I've been looking for you, Dr Hooper. Come over here to me now, and I'll let Mary and her baby live, how about that?" Molly deigned to answer, just walked across the floor to her, fixing her with a contemptuous glare. When she reached Sinead Moriarty, she was grabbed viciously by the hair and swung around to face the room, head held in a fast grip. Without a flicker of expression, Sinead pistol whipped the young soldier and he slumped, unconscious, to the floor. She patted Molly's pockets, and stroked her hip.

"Nice jeans Molly!, does Sherlock like them? I bet he does. No room for anything in there now is there? Oh, what do we have here?" she sneered, as she pulled the scalpel from Molly's white coat pocket. "Was that for me?" Naughty girl, I may have to punish you for that."

She dug the nozzle of her revolver into Molly's temple. Molly sucked in a breath and tried to control her racing heart. She closed her eyes and mentally replayed Sherlock's words, from the last time they spoke. She inhaled long silent breaths and began to calm. Then Sinead spoke again, voice icy and lethal.

"Right, tell me, which one of you bastards killed my brother this evening?" There was a shocked silence in the room and Sinead twisted Molly's hair even more tightly in her fist. "Tell me right now or I'll blow her bloody head off." And in that second they all knew that was exactly what she would do. Mycroft cleared his throat.

"Em, that would be me, Ms Moriarty, but in my defence he did enter the room uninvited, and just look what he did to Aoife's French doors.."

Sinead moved her hand away from Molly's head and pointing her gun at Mycroft, she fired her weapon. He dropped to the floor in a perfectly synchronised movement and her bullet missed his heart and winged his shoulder. He fell hard on his side and lay still. Molly screamed and moving to go to help him, was yanked back hard by the hair. She moaned in pain.

Outside on the garden patio Sherlock held up a warning hand to Aoife and she reluctantly motioned to her men to stay back. She looked at him, deeply concerned. He leaned over and whispered in her ear. "It'll be fine. You came to me because you trusted me. I promise you I know what I'm doing. I'm going in now Aoife. Come in at my signal." She nodded and stepped back into the shadows.

"Right," hissed Sinead, "Where's Lover Boy?" Sinead's voice carried out onto the patio. Sherlock smirked and winking at Aoife, he whispered,

"There's my cue!"

The French doors flung open dramatically and Sherlock Holmes strode into the room, taking in every detail. He flicked up his collar and ran a steady hand through his curls and then looking at Sinead he smiled sardonically at her and said,

"Hello 'Janine'. Miss me?" She smirked coldly at him and retorted,

"Like that, did you? Bet I had you going for a minute!" Sherlock tilted his head in mock consideration and then shook it firmly.

"Eh, nope. Not when his brain matter left such a nasty stain on my coat. The dry cleaners had a hell of a job."

As Sinead hissed in rage and glared at him, Molly Hooper moved her left hand into her support sling and under her cast.

"Well then," Sinead sneered, "You'd better stand well back, or you'll have the same trouble removing Molly's." He looked at her then and smirked knowingly.

"Oh no Sinead, I really won't."

He shifted his eyes to Molly then for the first time, and they gentled, and he smiled at her, and then nodded slightly. Molly swept her hand out from under her cast, and as she dropped to the floor in a dead weight, she stabbed Sinead fiercely in the thigh, narrowly missing her femoral artery. Sinead had moved at the last second. She screamed in rage and grabbed at the scalpel, pulling it from her flesh. She raised her arm and pointed her revolver at Molly.

"Say goodbye to your bitch, Sherlock," she snarled.

Molly's heart broke then, and she shook her head desperately at Sherlock, tears pouring down her face. Tears not for herself though, but for him. She didn't want him to see this, to see her die. But he just kept smiling at her and he was so calm and she didn't understand, she didn't, but she smiled back at him because she knew he was brilliant and that she trusted him more then anyone else in the world. So she swiped her tears with the heel of her hand, and stayed crouched on the floor, and waited.

Sherlock sighed at Sinead then and addressed her as you would a tiresome, misbehaving child,

"how many bullets does a Smith and Wesson 460v Magnum Revolver hold in it's barrel, Sinead?" She stared at him in confusion, then turned and fired the trigger directly into Molly's temple. The distinctive click of an empty gun chamber resonated throughout the room. Molly moaned with fright. Sinead stared at the useless gun in her hand and then answered quietly,

"five."

"Quite. You really shouldn't have been so trigger happy today."

Sinead Moriarty shook her head in disbelief and then suddenly erupting in a manic laugh, she looked at him and snarled maliciously,

"I'll get her Sherlock, when you least expect it, from prison or whatever hellhole you send me too, but I'll never stop until I get her."

"Oh, you really shouldn't have said that," Mycroft Holmes said coldly, and shot Sinead Moriarty through the head.


	26. The Irish Connection

Chapter 26

Molly had been too close to Sinead Moriarty when the bullet hit. As she crouched down on the floor she stared in horror at her arms and chest, where the last of the Moriarty family's blood and brain matter had splattered over her and all around her. She panicked and frantically jerked backwards, digging her heels against the wooden floor for leverage to escape from the body of Sinead Moriarty, and the blood pooling around her head and on the floor beside her. She could feel her own blood draining from her face and nausea surging through her entire system.

Then Sherlock was beside her and he was scooping her up and calling her name. She gripped his coat lapel with her good hand and turned her face into his chest but she couldn't stop shaking and she couldn't find her voice. So Sherlock spoke for her. He rocked her into him, and crooned to her, and lifting her up, he carried her out of the room and up the stairs to their bedroom. When he went to put her down she shook her head and gripped him tighter so he sank down on their bed, keeping her cradled in his arms, and still she trembled and latched on rigidly to him. He stroked her back and spoke softly to her,

"You're ok Molly. It's all over now, my darling girl. You're safe now Molly. I have you. Please, just breath with me Molly, come on now, big deep breaths",

He started to inhale long deep breaths and exhale slowly and she felt his chest moving beneath hers and she began to copy him and soon her pulse slowed down and she began to relax and come back to herself, and to him. She pulled back slightly, and looked down between them at her lovely new sweater all ruined, and Sherlock's coat and jacket and even his shirt all bloodied from holding her, and she turned up her face in disgust and looking at him, she said shakily,

"Get her off me please Sherlock? Get her off us?"

He nodded and stroked her face then shucked off his coat and carried her into the bathroom. He took off her lab coat and she helped as much as she could, then hissed in frustration at her cast, and holding it up, she said,

"This too, it's all bloody and some of it splattered inside, and I know it's on my skin. I want to take it off."

He acquiesced reluctantly, and told her that he'd strap her hand up tightly for the night, and that they'd sort it in the morning, and then she smiled tremulously at him and his heart surged in relief. She was coming back to him now. He gripped the plastic cast with his two hands and tugged hard and it popped apart. She grimaced in pain and then sighed heavily.

"I'm so tired Sherlock. I'm sick of being in pain and I was starting to feel slightly better but then, well, she pulled the head off me, and my scalp aches, and my body aches, all over again. I don't feel very well, really."

"That's perfectly understandable Molly, I'm so sorry we had to resort to Plan B. Not ideal." His voice cracked with guilt then, that it had come so close, and he wrapped his arms around her again and planted gentle, apologetic kisses on her face.

"No, don't do that Sherlock, you saved me, you and Mycroft. He took a bullet for Mary too, can you believe it? He protected me Sherlock; he shielded me with his own body for as long as he could."

She laughed softly, "and then you appeared through those doors, like my avenging angel. I was never so happy to see you in my life. I was so bloody terrified and there you were, just like you promised." She laughed a little shyly then.

"I so want to kiss the face off you, Sherlock Holmes, but I feel disgusting. I need to feel clean first."

"Arms up Molly, quickly!" he teasingly instructed and she laughed and raised them in the air, and he pulled her jumper over her head, then the t-shirt followed, and he tossed them into the bath, evidence be damned. He laughed in surprise as, with one hand, she began to help him undress. She pulled his jacket off and popping all the buttons of his shirt open, she peeled the shirt off his back.

"You do that a little too well for my liking, Dr Hooper!" and her mouth turned up in the first genuine smile he'd seen since he'd left for Galway.

"You'd better get used to it, Sherlock Holmes; you've been tormenting me with those shirts for years!"

He pulled his best 'who? me?' face and laughingly replied,

"I don't know what you're talking about Molly!"

"You do too!"

Her voice was weak though and he could still feel her trembling under his hands. He sat her down and pulled off her boots, and then the rest of her clothes. He stripped off his socks and then began to open his trousers. Molly started to chew her bottom lip and looked up at him from under her lashes. The blood rushed back to her face and he saw and gave her his gravelly laugh. Locking his eyes boldly on her, he dropped his trousers and underwear. Molly flicked her eyes down and then back up again and gave him a very approving grin. He smirked back and held out his hand to her, and she grasped it and stood up, and he put a gentle arm around her waist and led her into the large shower unit.

Holding on to her and gently stroking her hip, he turned on the water. It warmed instantly and they stepped under it. Sherlock took up the sponge and gel and washed every inch of her. He frowned at the rainbow of bruising covering her body, and placed gentle kisses where he cleaned. Molly rested her hands on his broad shoulders and closed her eyes, revelling in the sensations of the warm soapy water, and the sponge, and his mouth. She felt languid and cherished, and knew he was cleansing the fear and horror of the last twenty four hours out of her system, in his own inimitable way.

Then he washed her hair once again, and his own, and when he finished he turned off the water, and grasping her firmly to him, he gently combed through her long hair with his fingers. He planted a kiss on the crown of her head, and then, tilting her chin up with his fingers, he murmured,

"Better?"

Her eyes sparkled at him and her dimples were back in full force. Stroking low on his hip, she raised a coquettish brow at him and purred,

"Much, much better Sherlock.."

His eyes popped at her and then he stalled her hand and growled,

"You, woman, are a minx! When you have sufficiently recovered I'm taking you away somewhere where we can be completely alone and undisturbed for at least a week." Then he kissed the knuckles of her captive hand. "Meanwhile, we still have a case. Care to watch the destruction of the Moriarty empire?"

"That would be lovely!" and laughing gleefully, she grabbed towels and they quickly dried and dressed, Sherlock insisting on pyjamas and dressing gowns.

"Well it is night time Molly!" and she laughed at him and capitulated. Passing John and Mary's room, Sherlock cocked his head to listen and mock shuddered.

"Best leave them to it. Poor Mary. She's in good hands though." She looked down at the hand clasping hers and smiling, she said quietly,

"As am I," and she proceeded with him back down the stairs to the 'operations room'.


	27. The Irish Connection

Chapter 27

Aoife had stood watching the drama unfolding from her patio doors. She was the only one, besides her English guests, who'd witnessed the assassination of, undoubtedly, a ruthless killer, but Sinead Moriarty was also an Irish national, and this was the second killing of an Irish national in one night, from the same family, and once again in her own drawing room. She was reeling in shock. She glanced back behind her rapidly. Her men were too far back to have witnessed anything and she was relieved about that. They'd heard the gunshot, but that was all. She needed time to think. Calling out to them, she shouted,

'It's all clear, move in, we need the paramedics, now!" Mycroft turned to look at her, lowering his weapon onto the desk. Her face was grim, but otherwise inscrutable. They stared at each other for a long moment and then she strode purposefully towards him.

"Do you require medical attention? She asked, gesturing to the blood seeping through and staining his shirt. Her voice was neutral, and he couldn't read her, and his heart sank a little.

"Yes, but not right now Aoife." He replied, his trademark cool, professional tone carefully in place. "Right now we have a multi-jurisdictional operation, waiting on our go ahead, and they have not had any contact from us in over a half an hour. With five minutes to go, I expect they're getting a little anxious. What say you?"

It was a loaded question and she knew it. Subconsciously, she was aware of the pandemonium going on around her, but it felt very far away. The Garda team had swarmed into the room, swiftly followed by ambulance crews, who tended to the wounded soldier and then quickly carried him out. Dr Watson and Michael were assisting Mary out into the hall, and assumingly, up the stairs. Michael was shouting for paramedics to follow them, yelling dramatically "we're having a baby here!"

Sherlock had swept a clearly traumatised Molly Hooper into his arms and out of the room, but it all seemed to be happening in slow motion, on the peripheral.

She stared at Mycroft, struggling to think, as he waited patiently for her reply, and her mind flashed back in time, back to her beautiful, laughing twin brother, splashing her on a sunny beach in Kerry, all tussled black curls and dancing blue eyes. Earlier images still, of joyous Christmas mornings and Santa Claus, of Oisin holding her hand as he led them both into their classroom on their first day of school,

"Sure, I'll mind you Aoife, I'm the eldest, that's my job, Mammy said!"

She thought of their joint birthday parties and her laughing parents, but then her mind raced starkly onwards, to images of the two solemn Garda officers approaching her in the Irish College, and then to his funeral, and how her parents never quite managed to laugh in the same way, ever again, and how she'd refused to celebrate her birthday since she was fifteen years old.

She looked at this incredible and determined Englishman, who, irrespective of the consequences for himself, would not countenance even the possibility of that painful future for his beloved younger brother, and she made a decision. She reached her hand over to him and palmed his face, and smiling sadly at him, she replied,

"I say, let's get on with it then."

He closed his eyes briefly, exhaling in relief, and gently covered the hand cradling his face. Then she added firmly,

"On condition that you let the paramedics tend to you as soon as we give the go-ahead." He rolled his eyes but nodded and smiling with affection, he replied,

"Ever the negotiator, Aoife Quinn! Alright then, but she only winged me, I predicted the direction of the bullet perfectly."

She shook her head in genuine amusement. Touching his wounded shoulder with feather light fingers she chided him,

"Not quite perfectly, Mycroft Holmes," A statement to which he had to concede.

Then they turned and sat back down at their positions at the monitors and between them, began to orchestrate the systematic destruction of one of the most pervasive criminal networks their countries had ever known. They lifted phones and accessed laptops, sending messages to Westminster, and to Dublin Castle, and throughout their two countries, brave and righteous men and women of law enforcement began to move in on the last echelons of the Moriarty crime family's rotten syndicate.

Michael and his team worked carefully behind them processing the crime scene, for the second time that day. Aoife sighed in relief as they finally took the Moriarty woman out of her home, cleaned up the gore on her floor, and left. Then, and only then, did Sherlock come back into the room, hand in hand with 'his Molly', both scrubbed clean and in their pyjamas and dressing gowns. He dragged the deep armchair over beside his brother's seat and sitting Molly down in it, covered her with a throw. Aoife watched him fondly. He was animated and utterly enchanting, and she saw her twin again in him.

Then Sherlock stood, as if to attention, tall and rigid at his seated brother's side, the pair of them facing forward towards the monitors, determinedly avoiding looking at each other. Placing a tentative hand on Mycroft's uninjured shoulder, he cleared his throat and said,

"Thank you, Mykie."

Mycroft paused and then, reaching across his chest to cover his brother's hand with his, replied,

"That's ok Sherlock, that's my job, I'm the eldest. You know what Mothers always said!"

And Aoife closed her eyes in disbelief at his words. Choking back tears, she felt the spirit of her brother surrounding her in a fleeting embrace, and then it was gone.

The two brothers laughed then and Sherlock turned, scooping Molly up in the air, making her gasp and giggle, then sat down in the armchair and cradled her on his lap. She lay back against his chest, and wrapping his arms around her middle, she covered his hands with her good arm. Aoife wiped a stray tear off her face. Mycroft noticed, of course, and reached across and squeezed her hand.

All through the night they four kept vigil at the screens and watched the real 'fall'. The fall of the Moriarty empire.

Before the sun rose over the Irish Sea, the most successful joint security operation in their countries histories had been completed. Hundreds of arrests were made, the largest, most valuable haul of drugs and contraband ever recorded in a single operation had been recovered, containers full of firearms and ammunitions intercepted and, most poignantly of all, hundreds of human slaves, men, women and children, were rescued from the Gatwick warehouse by Lestrade and his team. The media had been alerted, exactly as planned, and images of criminal men and women being led in handcuffs, out of warehouses, farmhouses, industrial units and mansions were beamed all over the world.

Then, just as dawn began to break, the indignant wail of a new born infant carried down the stairs and they laughed delightedly at each other. Sherlock jumped up and rushed out towards the foot of the stairs as John Watson came racing down to him, shouting joyously to his friend,

"She's here Sherlock! Wait 'til you see her, she's here!"


	28. The Irish Connection

Chapter 28

For the next number of hours Aoife's home was a hive of activity. Word of the events of the night had spread like wildfire. The locals had experienced an uneasy twelve hours with the security forces rushing around and dangerous criminals on the loose, and noisy helicoptors and what not.

Joint statements were issued from the British and Irish Governments heralding the success of the operation and how it had 'further reinforced the deep bond of friendship between our two nations.' News agencies were reporting on the deaths of the Moriarty siblings, in Aoife Quinn's house, as they'd attempted to kill the famous English detective and his friends, and social media was buzzing with the news. '#Sherlockrocks!' was the top twitter trend in both countries.

But the word had also filtered out about the early arrival of a new infant, and how it was so unexpected, 'there isn't even a nappy in the house'. So from breakfast time, the Watson baby, as yet unnamed, brought a steady stream of visitors to Aoife's door and it was a relief for her to have the security lock-down relaxed somewhat, so she could welcome them. The local pharmacist sent up a box of provisions with a casual, 'fix me up later'. Neighbouring women popped in to drop off new baby-grows and blankets; another even produced a 'Moses Basket' that looked like an heirloom, and their thoughtfulness brought tears to Mary's eyes, as she muttered about 'hormones'.

The large kitchen became the bustling central meeting point, with Maria, Aoife's housekeeper, in complete control. The mouth watering aroma of 'full Irish breakfasts' wafted through the ground floor. Pots of tea and coffee were kept on the go, and members of her security team, Gardaí officers (finally going off duty), and her tired but exuberant English guests, were fed in shifts. The new mother was rewarded by her doting husband with breakfast in bed, which she devoured, and then promptly fell fast asleep. She was followed minutes later by her daughter and exhausted husband.

By mid morning the house had quietened. Mycroft retired upstairs to his bedroom to file his report and then get some sleep. Unusually for him after a mission, he was in no rush to go home to London. He was concerned about Aoife. Although on the surface she was her pleasant self he was sensitive to her now, had a feel of her, and something was off. He had noticed her slipping into her study and, unsure, decided to leave her alone. He sighed and, signing off his report to the PM, he undressed, wincing, as his newly acquired stitches pulled with his movements.

He lay in the bed but couldn't sleep and just as he decided to go in search of her, Aoife knocked softly on his bedroom door and then came into his room, closing it behind her.

"Hi," she said softly, "do you mind if I join you?, I.., I wasn't sure.."

She was dressed in a short, emerald green silk nightdress and matching dressing gown and his heart clenched in his chest at the sight of her.

"Never be unsure of your welcome with me Aoife. I was just about to go looking for you, in any case."

He held out his hand to her and she smiled and slipped off the dressing gown and climbing under the covers, she moved into his arms, and still, he could feel the sadness emanating from her.

"What's concerning you Aoife? Tell me." She sighed a deep, sad sigh and he could feel the tension coiled in her.

"I've just handed in my resignation to the Taoiseach. Two deaths at his Senior Defence Advisor's home in one night is just too politically sensitive. It's not fair on him, and he's been so supportive of me, and my family."

She sighed and placed a finger on his lips as he tried to interrupt.

"Aoife.."

"No Mycroft, it's done. I don't want to talk about it anymore. I'm so tired. Let's just sleep. Please?"

So he gathered her up and kissed her gently and then, when he was sure she was asleep, he sent another message to his PM. He smiled ruefully. This one would cost him, but by God, she was worth it. He knew the loss of her job was not the only thing weighing her down, but he would wait, and uncover the rest. He was determined to care for this fiercely independent woman, asleep in his arms, and already so firmly embedded in his heart.

In an office in No 10 Downing Street, the Prime Minister opened his email and raised his eyebrows in surprise. 'You sly fox, Mycroft Holmes!' and smiling broadly, he lifted his phone, requesting another connection to Dublin.

"Taoiseach, how are you? Great day, isn't it?"

The two friends and allies chatted and bantered about the successful events of the day. Then the PM casually mentioned the pivotal role Aoife Quinn had played and how both he, personally, and the British Government, were looking forward to continuing to work with her into the future. The Irish Taoiseach, not known to beat around the bush, laughed loudly, and informed him that he had no intention of accepting Aoife's resignation. Then, just before terminating the call, he told the British Prime Minister to be sure to give Mycroft Holmes his regards.

At the same time in their bedroom up the corridor, Sherlock lay beside his sleeping pathologist. He was pleasantly full, after a huge breakfast, and feeling almost overwhelmingly relieved. Since Molly's attack in Bart's morgue, things had occurred at a breakneck pace, and she had undergone an undue amount of trauma. She was peacefully asleep now though, and for the time being at least, completely safe. He smiled as he watched her. She was lying on her front, buried beneath the warm winter duvet, breathing deeply, and resting her arm across his chest. Her left hand had been re-cast and was splayed across the bed.

He sighed as he looked over at her bedside locker. Her photo album, with his letter tucked inside, was all that she owned now. Aside from the outfits Aoife had provided, she had precious little clothes. Insurance would remunerate her somewhat, eventually, but she currently had no possessions. Added to that, she was moving into 'his space' in Baker Street, and he was cognisant of the fact that she was bound to feel very unsettled for the next few months. He envisaged the flat, with his lab gear and experiments all over the kitchen, body parts in the fridge, and shook his head. John had reluctantly tolerated it, but she was a woman, and that wouldn't wash with her.

Anyway, he liked the way Aoife's kitchen worked, 'the heart of the home' as it were, where people gathered and caught up with each other, and he knew Molly liked it too. He pictured John, Mary and the baby, and now his brother and his Aoife, meeting in their kitchen, and the idea did not appal him in the slightest, because it would make Molly happy.

And then there was the issue of the press. Social media had already picked up rumours of his 'relationship' with a certain Dr Molly Hooper. Although the Irish media had swarmed the gates of Aoife's home as the news broke, Sherlock was aware that here, they were far more respectful of people's private lives, and had little or no paparazzi, except, and he grimaced, from some of their British based newspapers. Indeed, the subject had not even come up this morning. That would not be the case in London and Baker Street.

Molly, he reflected, needed time. Time to physically recover from her injuries and time to emotionally recover from the trauma. Time, also, for him to help her manage the inevitable loss of privacy, and gutter press intrusion, that awaited them in London. They needed time alone together too, just like he'd promised her, before she went back to work and he took up other cases. The solution was obvious. They would stay here in Ireland, for weeks if necessary, until the whole furore died down, if not here in this house, then somewhere else, although he knew Aoife would want them to stay. He grinned to himself. He was quite sure she'd be in London for a while.

He moved Molly's arm gently off his chest and slid out of the bed to call Mrs Hudson. He was going to renovate 221C. That would free up lots of space in his, no, 'their' flat. It was an ideal space for a lab, for both of them. At the same time he could beef up the security over the entire house. 'Hudders' was delighted to hear from him and happy to help him with his plans for Molly. They had a brief chat about design and architects and she got very excited. Mrs Hudson loved a project. He smiled then with delight when she said, at the end of the call,

"It may be time for you to make me another offer for Baker Street, Sherlock. My rascal boy is all grown up now. I'm so proud of you."

He paused for a second and replied,

"Only if you promise to stay," then simply thanked her and said goodbye.

As he hung up the phone he thought it might also be time to casually mention to Molly that, well, he was a man of considerable means. Genius's know how to play the stock market. Sherlock did one last thing before he went back to bed, and to sleep. He contacted Dublin's premier department store. Molly Hooper was going shopping.

It was late afternoon by the time Mycroft woke up. Aoife was not there. There was a message from her on his phone, but it was just a general one for the others as well, inviting them all to have dinner together in the kitchen at 18:00hrs. Michael was included too. He showered and dressed quickly. He had a fair idea where she had gone. Although only 17:00hrs, it was already dark. Mycroft made his way through the garden and out through the gate to the beach. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness after the floodlights from the garden, he saw her standing at the shore and facing out to the sea. He approached her and stopped close behind her and she turned to him, shrugging apologetically, and gestured to the tears pouring down her face.

"Oh, you've caught me".

He shook his head in a tender rebuke, that she would be embarrassed to reveal the depth of her emotions to him, and replied softly,

"That's my job now Aoife. I'll always catch you, if you'll let me."

She stared at him for a second and opening her arms to him, she began to sob. He grasped her tightly and pulled her into him, her face buried into his shoulder, and Aoife cried out years of grief and loss. Since the day Oisin had been killed she had never fully grieved because her single focus had always been to get justice for him, and to avenge his death. It had been a long fight, and now it was over. Her pain and grief, smothered for so long, had roared to a head since this extraordinary man had shot Sinead Moriarty. It had been building up all day and now it was flooding out of her.

She keened and shook in his arms and he held onto her, and stroked her hair, and encouraged her to release it all. And when she was done, he handed her a handkerchief, an actual real linen handkerchief, and she looked at him with a mixture of incredulity and amusement, and began to giggle. She wiped her face and blew her nose and then, pocketing it, she smiled boldly at him and stated,

"You are never getting that back!"

He laughed, because a bold Aoife Quinn was bloody irresistible, and countered,

"You may have it, if you like."

And Aoife looked down at the sand, then big green eyes glinting up at him through her lashes, she told him, quiet voiced,

"And you may have me, if you like."

Mycroft's jaw dropped, and then, maybe his eyes did water a little, but he'd blame it on the cold, and he beamed at her and said,

"Oh, I like. I really, really like,"

He pulled her in and kissed her lovingly, and then wrapping his arm around her shoulders, he led her back into the house.


	29. The Irish Connection

Chapter 29

The dinner that evening was a boisterous affair. The large kitchen table groaned under the weight of the food and wine and ornate dinner settings. Aoife had raided her wine cellar and the Department of the Taoiseach sent a magnum of Moet for Aoife's guests. Her housekeeper had surpassed herself. She had produced Christmas dinner, an entire banquet of roast turkey and ham and all the trimmings, in a matter of hours. Aoife, laughingly explaining,

"Well, I heard yours was disturbed by, mm, how should I put this, 'a case'?",

"A case of blooming sedatives, more like," Mary muttered, and the room roared with laughter. Sherlock pouted gloriously until Molly twinkled at him and planted a swift kiss on his lips. He raised his eyes to Heaven but couldn't quite manage to disguise his smile.

"Do be quiet Mary, you'll wake the baby, and, on that subject, have you and your significant other got around to actually naming the poor child yet?" He enquired, one eye on the sleeping infant at her side.

"Right, about that," John cut in then, and standing up, he continued, "could we have a bit of hush for a second please, Mary and I would like to say something".

An obedient silence descended and John continued, "Thank you. Well firstly, of course, we would like to thank our gracious hostess for her hospitality, and for working with us all so diligently to rid us all of an insidious threat, to both our countries and to each of us personally".

He paused momentarily, smiled, and continued, "You know, I've always loved visiting Ireland, but this current trip has ensured that this country will have a special significance now. Our daughter was born here. She was assisted into this world, just last night, by Irish medics and then, in an extraordinary gesture of decency and kindness, she was welcomed by the local people, after a long and arduous day and night for all of us."

He paused again then and looked at Sherlock.

"And then there's this man, who very recently, and not for the first time, saved me. My brilliant friend, who made the ultimate sacrifice, that of himself, so we may be free to raise our daughter without fear. We will never forget his actions and never cease to be grateful, because, well, I'm not the one who said, 'greater love hath no man, but to lay down his life for his friends'. 'High functioning sociopath' my arse!"

Sherlock went to interrupt him but John put his hand on his shoulder to stall him.

"I'm nearly finished Sherlock, hold on now, and I'll stop embarrassing you very soon." The friends laughed again, and Molly wiped her eyes surreptitiously behind her napkin.

"Do get on with it then John, honestly, the dinner's getting cold.." Sherlock grumbled, unhappy with the attention.

"Yes, well anyway, that leads us to our daughter's name." Sherlock's head shot up hopefully.

"We've been doing a little research and 'Sherlock' is, undisputedly, a man's name, and we cannot, in good conscience, burden our little girl with a mans name."

Sherlock's shoulders slumped a little.

"However, we have discovered that 'Sherlock' , in old English, means 'bright haired,' and by a happy coincidence, so does the Irish girls name, 'Fionnuala'. So, ladies and gentlemen, please raise your glasses to 'Fionnuala Erin Watson'!"

Sherlock gaped at him for long seconds, thinking hard, and then jumped to his feet, gripping John's arms fiercely with in his hands in a half embrace. Then, grinning from ear to ear, he raised his glass to the sleeping infant and smiling with delight he said, "Slainte!, Fionnuala".

The group of friends at the table echoed his 'Slainte!', and Aoife grinned at Michael, both of them acknowledging happily that 'Erin' is an old word for Ireland. Michael jumped to his feet then, and exclaimed to Sherlock,

"Oh, I have a surprise for you too, boyo" and he disappeared out to the hall. He returned, grinning, and handed Sherlock a violin case. Sherlock's eyes lit up. Michael laughingly reminded him, "you and I, my friend, have a bet. We", gesturing to Aoife, "sorted this for you, same model as mine, so it's totally fair."

Sherlock opened the case knowing what to expect. "Mmm, a Scott Cao, this should suffice." He took out the bow and ran his fingers along the strings.

"Don't forget Michael", he added, "the audience decides."

"Grand!" Michael responded, "let's play together first, and then play whatever we wish for about ten minutes each, how about that?, and Sherlock nodded in agreement.

Aoife clapped her hands and exclaimed happily, "Oh excellent, we're having a party! we'll do it here, and have a big splash. We deserve it, fantastic! We'll invite everyone!"

Aoife figured it would take a few days to organise. She wanted to invite all the people who had helped them, and the friends planned and chatted together over their meal. Before long a decision was made to hire a large marquee to provide an overflow area, and to facilitate a bar, stage and tables. Local musicians would be hired for entertainment and she'd get the caterers in.

Mycroft watched her, the excitement lighting up her face and couldn't resist covering her hand with his on the table. Turning to him guiltily she grimaced and said, "Oh Mycroft, sorry, I never even asked you! Can you stay here a few more days?" He smiled indulgently at her.

"Yes Aoife, I can shift some appointments and, if I may utilise your study, I can work remotely from here?"

"Of course you can!"

She smiled and then throwing her arms around him, she kissed him exuberantly on the cheek. Her phone rang and pulling it out to check the caller, she sighed and said, "Oh, I have to take this, it's the Taoiseach, excuse me a minute," and she left the noisy room.

Sherlock received a text from his brother. 'Should we invite our parents? You know this is right up their alley.'

Sherlock tensed for a moment. This was a shift in Mycroft's behaviour. He was asking him; not telling him. It gave him pause for thought, and then he texted back,

'Yes. It will make up for Christmas. You ask them, as it's Aoife's home...I'll warn Molly!"

Mycroft kept a wary eye out for Aoife. She appeared within minutes in the doorway and beckoned for him. He joined her in the hall, apprehensive now, as her arms were crossed tightly and she was looking down at her feet.

"What did you do, Mycroft Holmes? and don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about!" He cleared his throat and protested, a little too earnestly,

"I merely mentioned to the PM, in passing, how useful our professional association is, and what a loss it would be if you were to be removed from your current position. Not a word of a lie in that Aoife. Em, are you very cross?" She laughed and launched herself into his arms.

"I should be, I know I should, but I'm really not. I'm delighted! I didn't want to resign, but you know that, you clever man." He wrapped his arms tightly around her waist.

"I doubt he'd have accepted it in any case Aoife. There was no love lost in this country for those Moriarty's, any more then there was in Britain. You did the country a favour, and the people know it, and are not concerned about the nuances of how it was done. I shouldn't be at all surprised if the Taoiseach's ratings jump, actually."

She pulled him down to her and kissed him deeply, and then went back in to join her guests, keeping a firm hold on his hand. Just before they re-entered the room, he stopped and asked her,

"Exactly how good is Michael on the violin?", and she looked up at him, eyes dancing with devilment,

"He was the Irish champion fiddle player, five years in a row, until he retired from competing."

Mycroft threw back his head and laughed.

Sherlock had noticed that Molly had turned a little pensive at the mention of the party and texted Aoife.

'Are you available to take Molly shopping in Dublin tomorrow morning?' She immediately responded.

'Yes, lovely. I'd like a new dress for the party and we have to get baby stuff for Fionnuala.'

Then he whispered to Molly to come with him to the living room for a minute, and excusing themselves, he tugged her behind him and headed out the door. John raised his eyebrows and laughed,

"Seriously! more snogging? Molly Hooper, you've awakened a monster!" Mary snorted with laughter, then laughed again at his "do shut up John.." rejoiner, as he left.

"Sounds like a good idea to me Sherlock!," Molly giggled and grabbed him to her while closing the living room door with her foot. He smirked and then shook his head.

"No Molly, I want to talk to you for a minute, so, no distracting me. In fact, sit here."

He plonked her unceremoniously down in the couch by the fireplace and she blinked in confusion at him.

"OK?," she said, uncertain now.

He sighed and rapidly paced up and down the room, hands behind his back, and she smiled at the picture of him, wondering where this was going.

"Molly.." More pacing, then, "Molly, are you familiar with the custom of trousseau?"

She gaped at him in astonishment. That was not what she imagined he was going to say.

"Em..., yes?"

"Right, good. Well, anyway, hear me out. I am proposing a 'modern day' version of a trousseau, if you will, for you to consider," He paced the room again in agitation and Molly shook her head in bewilderment.

"Sherlock, what in God's name are you on about?" He ruffled his curls in frustration. He took a deep breath and started again.

"Sorry, yes, well, what I mean is, I am aware that when a couple decide to move in together, in our case, into my flat, it is customary for the women to bring her clothes and possessions with her, and well, unfortunately in your case, that is not possible. So, I am proposing to arrange a 'trousseau' for you to bring with you to Baker Street. Aoife is going up to Dublin on a shopping trip in the morning and I would like it if you would accompany her. I have arranged for you to collect a store card from a reputable department store in Grafton Street. I want you to spend every penny on it, to restock your wardrobe and linens and what not. It is a substantial amount Molly, and I mean it, use up every penny. Anyway if you don't; they won't refund it. So do your best hmm?"

He looked at her anxiously, those two adorable wrinkles between his brows, and her heart flipped over. She'd been worrying about what to wear to the party, and all the other things she needed to replace, and here he was again, proving how serious he was about her. He was doing everything he could to help her feel secure, to know that she was wanted, and that she belonged with him.

"Sherlock, can you sit here for a minute?" She smiled so lovingly at him that he stood stock still, pacing ceased, and smiling back at her, he sat down beside her.

"I do have my own savings, my own money, you gorgeous man, and I can take care of myself." He took her hand and interrupted her,

"I know that Molly, but please permit me to do this for you. I want to, I really do, and, well, actually, it's quite important that you let me. You've been taking care of yourself for so long, since your father died really, and that's marvellous, but now, you're not alone, it's not just you anymore, it's us, and you've got to let me do things for you."

Molly's her heart swelled with emotion. He was right, of course he was, but the pace of their developing relationship was forocious and she was struggling to keep up. So she demonstrated what she couldn't verbalise, by pulling him into her arms, and kissing him. He grabbed her, laughing now, and swung her around to lie on top of him on the couch, locking a long leg around hers, and trapping her to him. Winding his arms around her back, he grasped the back of her head and pulled her face down to him, planting soft kisses all over it, and she stretched and giggled as he nuzzled her neck. She pulled her head up, remembering something he'd said.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm, what is it Molly?, I'm a bit busy!" She giggled again, and placed her hand on his chest to hold him back.

"No, just a minute. When you say 'substantial amount', what exactly do you mean?"

He smirked broadly and coaxing her head back down to him, he whispered a figure into her ear. Her head flew back in shock and her draw dropped, exactly as he'd anticipated, and he pulled her open mouth down to his. As she emitted a rather satisfactory moan in response, he decided that they could delay returning back in to the dinner for a minute..., or ten.


	30. The Irish Connection

Chapter 30

That night, as they lay in bed, Sherlock held Molly in his arms as they discussed the plans he had made for them both. He held off on telling her about making an offer for the entire building. He wanted to surprise her with that in the future. He told her of the renovations in 221C, and she was very excited about his lab.

"Our lab, Molly!" he corrected, and she smiled happily and planted a kiss on his chest. He asked her opinion on equipment and design and she said she'd make a list. Molly loved lists. They were both content, for now, not to rush headlong back to London. She couldn't work with her wrist anyway, not properly, so she'd only be relying on interns. Anyway, she said, she had lot's of leave worked up. He asked her if she'd like to stay on in this house, after the others had left, told her that Aoife had insisted, and that it was his preferred option too, as it was so secure. The happy smile on her face was his answer.

She still tired easily, and her body ached, but she told him shyly that she had a different ache too now, and he smirked gamely, and then ruefully responded with, "tell me about it.." He knew they both quite liked it though, this slow build up of sexual tension. It was a silent understanding between them, to be completely alone in the house for that first time fully together.

Molly's bruised body was still very tender to touch. Her wrist throbbed painfully and she needed rest, and time to recover. Now that Sinead Moriarty was dead, she could start to recuperate properly. He had no intention of hurting her, he'd told her, and also added with a mischievous smirk, that he was "not into half measures either," and she blushed to her roots.

So for now they were content to wait. The both confessed to be enjoying the company of the other two couples, and Michael popping in and out, although Sherlock insisted she must never tell Mycroft. She rolled her eyes, and giggled, and told him they were no longer fooling anyone, himself and Mycroft, so they may as well 'give over', and he pretended to be horrified.

She was excited about the shopping trip and he loved how animated she was becoming again. He was acutely aware of the toll the last few years had taken on her, and, that most of it was his fault. He hadn't factored that in when he asked her to help him 'fall'. She was intrinsically honest, and lying to people she cared for, and respected, went against her nature. So she'd distanced herself from her friends, all for his benefit, and her smile had dimmed. Avoiding her after his return had hurt her further, although he'd just wanted her to be safe. He was determined to make it up to her now, and it lifted his heart to hear her laugh, and to see that special luminous smile of hers, flashing so frequently, just for him.

Early the next morning the kitchen was, again, bustling with activity. John had elected to accompany them on the trip to Dublin. Molly was not the only one who liked lists. Mary had written one a mile long for baby Fionnuala. Aoife had told them to buy as much as they liked because she'd be flying her own plane back to London 'with Mycroft'. The same gentleman had decamped to her study from early on. Winking at Aoife he'd said that "a country doesn't run itself.." He felt uneasy at their imminent trip though, and as he sat at the antique desk, he sighed, and resting his chin on his hands, he tried to figure out why. Making a decision, he picked up his mobile and assigned four of his best agents to shadow the shopping party.

Michael had taken Sherlock aside at dinner the previous night to tell him that the samples from the exhumations would be arriving first thing in the morning, and that he'd deliver them to him personally. Although Sherlock thought the results were probably a foregone conclusion he was determined to analyse them in any case. Grainne Kenny's parents deserved to know the truth about her death. He decided he'd work on them first thing, and join the women in Dublin after lunch. There was somewhere there he wanted to return to, because he wanted to bring Molly. Taking John aside he'd asked him if he had his gun with him. John looked at him incredulously. "Why would I bring a gun into Dublin to buy baby stuff for Fionnuala, Sherlock?"

"Is it in your coat pocket?" He demanded, and John smirked at him.

"Yes Sherlock!," and the two friends laughed and walked out to the hallway.

Sherlock took Molly's hand and escorted her to the waiting car. Just as they reached it he gripped her gently and swung her up high off her feet. She gasped and, clasping his shoulders, she threw her head back and peeled with laughter, her long untethered hair flowing down her back. (She couldn't tie it back in a pony tail on her own, and he was always mysteriously 'unavailable' when she asked). Sherlock's eyes drank in the sight of her and he laughed in return. He lowered her a little to whisper in her ear, "I'm taking you somewhere later Molly, just the two of us, ok?" Then there was that bloody brilliant smile of hers again. She leaned into his ear and whispered,

"Are you asking me on a date, Sherlock Holmes?" and he stilled for a split second and then lowering her to her feet, he palmed her face, stroking her cheekbones tenderly with his thumbs.

"Do you know, Molly Hooper, I rather think I am!" She smiled with delight and cupping his face with her one good hand, she kissed him and whispered into his ear,

"I'm so happy, Sherlock!"

He swallowed the lump in his throat and then kissed her goodbye and ushered her into the car.

Mycroft and Aoife watched from the hall door and smiled indulgently at the couple. He took her hand, then raised it to his lips and kissed it softly.

"Stay vigilant Aoife, please?" he said, and she tilted her head quizzically at him. He added nothing further so she nodded seriously at him, kissed him goodbye, and got behind the wheel of the SUV. The two brothers turned to look at each other as she drove off and out of the gates, neither saying a word. Before parting in the hallway Sherlock said,

"Yes Mycroft, I'll let you know the results of the analysis.., and Mycroft, I'm going to run a DNA test on the parents too."

Mycroft froze momentarily and then nodded at Sherlock. That was a very good idea.

Michael's unmarked Garda car swept up the drive and Sherlock stepped back outside to greet him. He was anxious to proceed. Michael offered to stay and assist and Sherlock readily agreed. He'd be glad of the help and his results would be on the record here then. The two men set to work.

Aoife had called ahead to book her personal shopper for Molly, as she had got it so bang on with the emergency provisions, just from the description and measurements, (Sherlock), that Aoife had sent her. She took the ladies to a private room and Molly had the time of her life trying on all her selections. She loved almost all of them, and appreciated her assistance in dressing. She still mentally struggled with the fitted styling but the ladies reassured her. She was 'so petite' and 'hadn't a pick on her, for heaven's sake!' so she shrugged and let it go. Within a couple of hours she had a whole new wardrobe selected that flattered her size and colouring.

Aoife suggested a coffee break. Cognisant of Mycroft's advice, she decided not to leave the store until Sherlock arrived for Molly, so they headed to the gourmet in-store café. As they sipped their coffee, Molly, smiling shyly at her, told her that she wanted to look at the lingerie department too, and Aoife giggled conspiratorially at her, "Oh so do I Molly, so do I!" and they both laughed. They decided that they'd try on a selection of dresses for the party before they selected their underwear. As the women chatted amiably about the party, several people approached their table to politely enquire how Aoife was, some of them even recognising Molly too.

Aoife smiled to herself as she noticed a couple of men sitting very close to them, casually scrutinising the various exchanges. As she and Molly stood up to leave, an elderly gentleman, dressed in a long winter coat, soft woollen cap, and using a walking stick, approached them purposefully and stood in their path as they were leaving. He held out his hand to Molly and she had to take it in her left one to shake. He gripped it, over- tightly, and she winced.

"You've had a lucky escape, Dr Hooper," he stated. Molly nodded and tried to pull her hand back but he held on. He was beginning to unnerve her.

"Em, thank you," she responded, "I was always in safe hands." She gestured towards Aoife.

"You'd best be careful though," he responded icily, and she stared back at him in alarm, "they can't always be around, surely?" The two agents were on their feet and moving. Aoife reached over to remove his hand from Molly's. He'd already dropped her hand though, and had moved rapidly towards the escalator, far more agilely than his walking stick suggested, and disappeared into the crowds.

Molly looked at Aoife in bewilderment. "That was weird!"

"Ah, don't worry," she replied, "it was probably nothing. Lets get some underwear!" But as Molly browsed through the rails, Aoife called Mycroft, and then Dublin Castle. She told them to requisition the CCTV images from the store immediately and send them to her email account. She received them twenty minutes later and forwarded them on to Mycroft.

Sherlock ran the toxicology analysis from the three separate samples. While he was working, Michael filled him in on what he could find out about the Moriarty parents. There was precious little to go on. Their deaths had occurred before the 'PULSE' criminal record computer system had been introduced to the Garda Siochána. Only serious legacy crimes had been uploaded, and their parents had managed to stay off the radar. Officially anyway. Rumour was a different matter though and some of the Gardaí from that time remembered titbits that reached their ears from informants. Word was that James Moriarty Snr. had gained quite a reputation as a 'go to' guy. Jim Jr. had not 'licked it off the stones'.

By mid morning Sherlock had been able to ascertain that all three bodies had been drugged with rohypnol. The notorious drug was infamous for leaving its' victims' system within hours, but that was if they survived, and their systems excreted it. In the cases in front of him, all three had died very quickly after injesting it. Michael carefully logged the results on the record. The DNA took longer. He didn't need to do the young woman's, and he already had Jim and John Moriarty's, so that did save some time, but he had to do Sinead's and her parents. By midday he was nearly done and Mycroft joined him in the lab. He told him of the unusual incident with Molly and the 'old man' in the café. Sherlock grabbed his coat but Mycroft stalled him.

"She's perfectly safe Sherlock, I assure you. Lets finish the test. I've sent the film to London for facial analysis. I do have growing concerns." Mycroft gestured to the DNA analysis. He reluctantly agreed and rang Molly while they waited. She answered with a very soft, "hi, you," and, there it went again, his heart.

"Hi yourself," deep and throaty, and she was momentarily silent.

"Stop smiling Molly!" and she giggled.

"Nope, cant!" and he laughed back at her.

"Guess what I'm doing Sherlock?"

"I never guess, Molly." She rolled her eyes,

"Ok then genius, tell me,"

"You're buying me a present Molly," he drawled. As she looked in the dressing room mirror at the silk and satin teal coloured bra and knickers she was standing up in, Molly felt his voice resonate throughout her body, all the way to her toes.

"I must say," he continued, jaguar growl, "I'm really looking forward to 'unwrapping' it." Molly had to sit down on the stool in the dressing room.

"I'm going to have to buy these knickers now Sherlock."

Sherlock tilted his head, brow wrinkled in confusion for a split second and then his eyes popped wide.

"Dr. Hooper!" She erupted in giggles.

"Well, you started it!"

"Oh and I fully intend 'finishing it' too, and very soon!" and then he added, oh so softly, "My darling girl."

She closed her eyes for a long moment and inhaling deeply she murmured,

"Promise?"

"I promise Molly."

The machine binged behind him; the results were ready.

"I have to go now Molly, please do not leave that store without me. I'll be there within the hour." She assured him that she wouldn't and they said their goodbyes.

Mycroft and Michael stood closely beside him as he read and compared the DNA strands. His shoulders slumped and he muttered, "Christ!," under his breath. Then he informed them both that the male DNA had no connection to Jim, John and Sinead Moriarty. They three were pure siblings. Whoever the man in the car crash had been, he had not been the biological father of any of them.


	31. The Irish Connection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for slight delay in updating folks. I was in London on a Hamlet weekend! Short chapter here and another on the way.

Chapter 31

Sherlock left for Dublin in one of Aoife's Range Rovers immediately after he produced the DNA results. Although he had been disturbed by their revelations, and the veiled threat to Molly earlier, he rationalised that if the man had wanted to hurt or kill Molly, he could have. They simply did not have enough information on the Moriarty parents' deaths, or more importantly, their lives, yet. Jim Moriarty had falsely identified his father's body, but the female identified by him was definitely his mother. Sherlock suspected that the mother was trying to escape the clutches of her husband. It was possible that she had stuck around for the children, then given up on them as they embraced their father's lifestyle, or, that she was having an affair with the man who died with her in the car. Michael was going to run the DNA against the 'Missing Persons' relatives DNA database. Either way, it was clear that the Moriarty matriarch had not been allowed to leave voluntarily.

As he drove the forty minutes to the city Sherlock decided one thing though. He was going to have to talk to Molly about security, and self defence, and other potential and undesirable consequences of his work.

He parked in the underground car park of the department store and made his way up in the lift. She was in the homeware department, running her fingers along a luxurious duvet cover on a bed display. She had a far away look on her face, smiling dreamily to herself, and he just stood and watched her, placing a warning finger on his lips when Aoife spotted him. Then he moved quietly to stand right behind her and drawled into her ear,

"Buy it Molly."

Molly jumped out of her skin and spun around to see a smirking Sherlock. She slapped him lightly in the chest and he caught her hand and held it there.

"Christ Almighty, Sherlock!, you scared the crap out of me!" He laughed and wrapped his arm around her waist, locking her hips to him.

"I'm going to have to talk to you about self defence Molly, but that's for later. Now, are you ready to go? You're not too tired?"

"Yes, I'm ready to go and no, I'm not too tired!, I'm really looking forward to this actually. Where are we going?" She made no move to separate from him, rather, she began stroking his chest slowly and looking up at him from under her lashes.

"Molly, stop that!"

"What? I'm only saying hello. I was just thinking about you actually."

"I know, I saw you," he responded, running the pad of his thumb across her lips, and she gulped.

"You saw me thinking about you?, how could you know..never mind!" She rolled her eyes, "OK then genius, what was I thinking?" He lowered his head down to whisper into her ear,

"Lets just agree to buy that bed set Molly.." She flushed with colour and he laughed and placed a gentle kiss on her cheek. He called the sales assistant over and asked her to add the entire set to Molly's shopping. She giggled and taking his hand, started to move over to Aoife to say goodbye, then hesitated,

"Is this ok, to hold your hand, here?"

"I've just been nibbling your ear, so, yes. Someone may take a photo though Molly, and it will end up in the press or social media. Are you prepared for that?"

She looked at him, and gripping his hand firmly, she led him over to a smiling Aoife.

Sherlock told Aoife that he'd be bringing Molly home. She laughingly told him that John had already made numerous trips to the car so it was just as well, and then hugging them both, she left them to it. Sherlock held on to her hand, tucking it into his big coat pocket when they went outside. It was a beautiful Winters afternoon in Dublin. Crisp and cold with blue skies and bright sunlight. Molly enjoyed the short walk in the fresh air; she hadn't been outside in days. She looked quizzically at him as he stopped outside a church.

"Are we here? I wasn't expecting a church!" He smiled at her and hugged her around her shoulders with one arm.

"Come inside and I'll tell you why we're here."

Keeping his arm around her he led her up the granite steps and inside. There was no Mass on, and so there was just a few people scattered around the large high ceilinged Church. The origin of the Church in Whitefriar Street dated back to the 16th century, he told her, and was a popular landmark with Dubliners, and more recently, with tourists.

"It's a lovely Church Sherlock, but..,"

"Bear with me Molly, I want to tell you something." He cleared his throat. "I got you a Valentine's card last year, while I was chasing down a lead in Dublin, and I left it here." She stared at him,

"You did? you left it here? But why? tell me."

"Better still, I'll show you."

Taking her hand he led her to an alcove cut into the hard granite wall.

"Molly, meet St Valentine!"

Molly gasped with surprise. There on a large plinth, was a statue of St Valentine, and underneath, also cut into the wall, and protected by a metal grill, was a large wooden sealed box.

"Well, not quite all of him, but his heart is here." She stared at him in wonder.

"You left a Valentine card for me at St Valentines heart? His actual heart?" Her eyes filled with tears and she slapped her hand over her mouth in shock.

"Happy tears?" he asked her, uncertainly.

"Oh My God Yes!" She exclaimed, and launched herself into his chest. "That is the most romantic thing I've ever heard. Oh Sherlock. I do so wish I'd known. What made you do it?"

"Ahem, well, I may have been missing you, Molly Hooper, and I hoped that some day I'd be able to tell you, or show you. I, well.., I knew you'd like it too."

"I love it Sherlock, I really do!" She stroked his face and rested her head on his chest, and he kissed the top of her head, and then he whispered, as only he would,

"Do you think they'd notice if I took a sample?" and she laughed in his arms, so hard, that the tears ran down her face again.


	32. The Irish Connection

**Chapter 32**

Sherlock and Molly spent the afternoon strolling around the bustling shopping streets. They stopping off for a late lunch in the converted Powerscourt Centre, which, he told her, is an historical Dublin building, having served as Lord Powerscourt's townhouse and courtyard in the 18th Century. With stunning architecture, it now housed many 'one of a kind' designer boutiques and restaurants. All the while Sherlock kept a watchful eye around him, but the only people following them were two of Mycroft's agents, which was fine with him.

He texted Mycroft for an update on the facial recognition of the 'old man' that had approached Molly, but the news was not good. It would appear that he had chosen his spot well. The entryway to the restaurant was not a priority for the store's security, as their primary focus was theft. The subject had kept his head well down on the escalator and avoided any full facial camera shots.  To Sherlock, that was an ominous sign. It meant the man was unlikely to have been just a crank. Sherlock suspected that he'd used a wig too. He texted Mycroft back to say that they would have to do a more comprehensive search of the CCTV images of everyone entering and leaving the store, at all four entry points, and for the entire timeframe. It would take a few days to process the thousands of images but Sherlock insisted to Mycroft that it was necessary. To be fair, Mycroft didn't need much convincing.

He watched Molly's face over lunch, so illuminated in her joyful enthusiasm, as she happily chatted to him, and he suddenly felt an overwhelming sadness, fleeting, but intense as it lasted. The reality of allowing her into his life, his heart, so completely, had just hit him, full force. That real possibility of her being more seriously hurt, or worse, would be something he knew he could not ever recover from. He would do anything to prevent that, even if it meant them being forcibly separated for a while. He did need to talk to her now and make her understand. He could use examples of soldiers on deployment, he thought, or more appropriately, at war, geographically separated from their partners, but very much together. Molly, of course, noticed his facial change, and leaning over the table she took his hand and asked him, "what's the matter Sherlock, you looked so sad there, what's wrong?" He shook his head and smiled ruefully at her,

"You can always see me Molly," he paused, and stroked her knuckles, and then linked his fingers through hers, making a show of examining her hand. Drawing a long breath, he continued quietly, "that's when I first realised that I loved you, you know. That time in the lab with John, when you told me I looked sad." He looked across the table then, directly into her eyes, "And I'll never stop loving you Molly, no matter what happens. Will you promise me you'll remember that, please, my darling girl?" his voice cracking slightly as he finished.

She stared at him for a long moment, a myriad of emotions racing across her face, from joy and love to concern and apprehension and then, finally, fear. She registered every word he said to her. They seeped into her heart and her soul. Her eyes filled with tears and she simply nodded and was quiet for a minute. Then she said shakily,

"I don't want to wait anymore, Sherlock."

He looked at her for a long moment and then nodded in acknowledgement. Smiling lovingly at her, he stood up and dropped cash on the table.

"Then let's go, Molly."

He helped her into her jacket and walked her towards the exit doors. Beckoning the two agents over, he stopped and told her he just needed the toilet. Ducking inside the door he booked a suite in the Shelbourne Hotel, Dublin's landmark five star hotel on St Stephen's Green, and, most conveniently, located just at the end of Grafton Street. Then he texted Aoife to tell her he'd changed his mind, where they'd be staying in Dublin overnight, could she send some of Molly's new clothes to the hotel please, and not to tell her? Aoife returned his requests with an emoticon 'winky face', and he rolled his eyes, and then laughed. He re-joined Molly, and wrapping his arm around her shoulders again, he led her to the car park.

They were only in the car for five minutes though, when he pulled into another car park entrance, where they were greeted by a valet. Molly stared at Sherlock, wide eyed, and then beamed, and he grinned back at her, delighted to see the smile back on her face. The valet took the car keys and led them directly to a private lift. Holding a card over the security panel, he swiped the card downwards and the lift door opened. He handed it to Sherlock. "You're already checked in, Mr Holmes, Ms Quinn rang ahead. Just press number five and it'll bring you straight up. Have a good evening."

"Thank you, I'm sure we will." He responded, and, as they stepped into the lift he reached for Molly, and pulled her into his arms. The valet smiled at the closing doors, because, like most people now, he knew their story, and what they'd been through, and he wished them well.

Sherlock held Molly tightly to him and began to slowly open the buttons of her jacket, all the while planting soft kisses along her cheek and down to her jawline. She clung on to his coat lapel, suddenly feeling very shy, and more then a little nervous. The lift door swept open and Molly gasped at the visage that greeted them. It was, quite simply, the most luxurious and breathtakingly beautiful hotel bedroom she had ever seen. It was huge, with rich soft furnishings in muted creamy greens, pinks, mauves and greys. Plush couches adorned the living area, but it was the bed that took her breath away. It was the biggest bed she'd ever seen in her life. She inhaled sharply and popped her eyes in wonder at him.

"That bed, like you Molly, is overdressed. I'll tackle the bed first, and then I'll get to you."

With that bold declaration, he strode over to the bed and swept the plush cushions and plumped up pillows off it with a flourish. Suddenly the bed looked twice as big. Molly actually began to tremble. He turned to her then, and locking eyes with her, he swept off his scarf and whipped off his coat with the same sure movements, and, without turning his head or moving his eyes away from her, he lay them over the back of an armchair. Molly thought to herself that she had never been more turned on in her entire life, and he was standing across the bloody room. She chewed her bottom lip and breathed in heavily.

This Sherlock always, always, turned her to jelly. He moved like a professional dancer, an athlete, with the confidence of a man totally secure in his own skin, and he was mesmerizingly beautiful to watch. She found herself holding her breath as he slightly fisted his left hand and turning it towards his torso, he opened the cuffs of his crisp white shirt. Then he repeated the motion with his other hand. His mouth turned up in the slightest of smirks as he opened the buttons of his shirt. His smirk grew bigger as he shucked it off his shoulders, down his arms and onto the floor.

Molly took a deep shuddering breath again and thought to herself that she would never forget how he looked right now, all black Adonis curls, firm and muscular alabaster arms and torso, and those magnetic aquamarine eyes glinting at her. She knew he was performing for her, and she smiled slightly too, and remembered to breath again. He folded his arms casually across his chest and tilting his head slightly to the side, he murmured huskily, "come over here to me, Molly" and she felt the blood rush through her and she began to tremble again. As she moved towards him she couldn't tear her eyes away from his, not until she reached him and then she felt so bashful that, chewing her bottom lip, she looked down at the floor.

He reached a hand out and flicked her lip gently back away from her teeth with the pad of his thumb. Then he leaned over, and sucked her bottom lip into his mouth, nipping it gently. Growling into her mouth he muttered, "It drives me crazy when you do that Molly. I think I'll make that my job from now on. Now, about you being overdressed.." He lowered her jacket back off her shoulders and tugged the sleeves gently down her arms and over her hard cast. It went over his jacket on the chair. Sherlock was taking his time now. He ran his hands down her arms, stroking them gently, until he reached the hem of her soft woollen jumper, and he reached under it, touching her back ever so lightly with the tips of his fingers. She shuddered and gripped his arm to steady herself.

"Arms up Molly," he directed and she raised them for him. He pulled the jumper up over her head, tugged sharply and it was off her, and it never made the chair. He sucked in his breath. Molly Hooper was wearing his present. He grinned delightedly down at her and she smiled shyly.

"I couldn't take them off Sherlock, I told you, I'd be mortified, so I told the girl I wanted to wear the set home!" and he threw back his head and laughed.

"Oh Molly, you are brilliant!,"

He grasped her by the side of her head with both hands and kissed her deeply. The passion between them, simmering for days, flared in seconds, and she grabbed his shoulder and moaned into his mouth. He ran his hand through her silky hair and, wrapping his fingers in it, he tilted her head back to explore her mouth more deeply. He couldn't get enough of her. She reached up and gripped his hair then too, opening her mouth fully to him. He lifted her up by the waist and she gripped his hips with her thighs. Carrying her over to the bed he sat her down on it and, reluctantly dragging his mouth off hers, he knelt down before her on the carpet, unzipped her boots and threw them behind him. She never let go of his hair. He grinned at her and lowering her flat on her back, he opened her jeans and tugged them down over her hips. They followed the general direction of her boots. Molly leaned up on her elbows, bolder now, and met his gaze.

The teal satin underwear complemented her creamy skin and golden brown hair perfectly and he sucked in his breath as he looked at her.

"You are so bloody beautiful Molly."

Leaning his long torso over her, Sherlock began to pay homage to the woman beneath him. He kissed his way down from her shoulders to her flat stomach. He ran his hands over every inch of her upper body, stroking and caressing her with his musicians fingers, until she was writhing under his touch. Only then did he reach a deft hand behind her back, open her bra, and rip it off her body. She giggled and he grinned down at her and then, slowly lowered his mouth to her breast. Molly stopped giggling.

She groaned and arched her back up to him and wrapped her arms around his back to clamp him to her. She hissed in frustration at the cast on her hand. She wanted desperately to touch him with both hands, and it was heavy and awkward. He grabbed her by her wrist and manoeuvred it over head, holding it down. Moving his head up he nipped and kissed her along her underarm up to the hard cast at her elbow, and she shuddered and moaned under him. He cupped her breast with his hand and ran his thumb across her nipple.

He smiled as she moaned his name. As he sucked her into his mouth he wondered how the hell he had resisted her for so long. Deciding her other breast deserved at least the same amount of attention, he moved his mouth across her chest and cupping it firmly, he tugged the nipple gently between his teeth and she locked her legs tightly around his waist in response. It was incredible, he thought, this chemistry between them. All his senses were heightened, and he could scarcely believe his own reaction to her, as she whimpered and shuddered under him.

Molly groaned in frustration at the barriers still between them and reaching down, she opened the button on his trousers and unzipped him. She gripped him and then suddenly, he was the one who was groaning. He raised himself off her, growling "don't move an inch, Molly," and stripped off the rest of his clothes. He looked down at her as she lay waiting for him, and then she smiled and held her arm out for him.

"Now Sherlock, please, I need you now."

She looked completely stunning. Her entire body was flushed and she was perspiring lightly. Her mouth was slightly open and she was breathing hot and fast. He was more then ready for her too. But he smirked at her, and then he gripped her ankles and yanked her down to the edge of the bed. Dropping down to kneel in the floor, he lowered his head to her sex. It was too much for Molly and she bucked beneath him, gripping him tightly with her thighs. She moaned out his name again as she climaxed under his mouth. Sherlock crawled up beside her then and held her to him as she trembled and shook. Then, when she was ready, she removed the last barrier between them and took him into her body, and Sherlock's last rational thought, as he moved within her, was that she was always meant to be his.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	33. The Irish Connection

Sherlock and Molly whiled away the evening wrapped up in bed, exploring and loving each other, until they were completely spent. Molly held him, his head clasped to her chest, and stroking his hair, she whispered to his sleepy, sated form that he was the love of her life. "Well of course I am Molly!" he responded, and she laughed and kissed the crown of his head. She ran her hand along his shoulders, and down his back, and back up his arm, tracing the lines of muscle with her fingers, and she murmured to him that she couldn't seem to stop touching him. He chuckled deeply into her chest and responded with "That's fine with me.."

"It's terribly limiting with one hand you know," she complained, "It's only been a few days and I'm fed up with it already." He raised his head (and a naughty eyebrow) at her and retorted,

"You manage very bloody well with one hand, Dr Hooper!" and she giggled.

"You wait until I have the other one back too, Mister Holmes!"

"Say that again...!" he growled into her neck, so she whispered it into his ear, and he hummed in satisfaction. Settling back down to lie on her chest, he took the errand hand in his own, and bringing it up to his lips, he kissed her fingertips. "It will be off before you know it Molly, but you must do all the physiotherapy required afterwards to restore its full functionality, that's terribly important, especially with your line of work. I'll find the best one for you."

"I'm sure the one in Bart's will be fine."

"Nope... I don't want 'fine', Dr Hooper, I want the best for you. We agreed!" She laughed.

"That 'agreement' seems to have very broad parameters Sherlock Holmes!"

"Now you're getting it!" and he nuzzled into her chest.

She laughed ruefully, and couldn't resist running her fingers through his hair, again. They lay, quiet and content, and Molly's mind drifted, rewinding over her lovely day, and how they'd ended up here, and how perfect it all was. Then she remembered what he'd said in the restaurant and she stilled, just for a second, and he frowned, knowing, and waited her out. It didn't take long.

"Do you want to sleep, Sherlock?" She asked him, and he sighed, and ran his hand along her arm, that had so suddenly tensed.

"You want to know what I meant by 'no matter what happens' Molly, I know you do. So, let's do this now and then put it out of our minds, at least until, or, if, we have to confront it face on."

"Oh God, you're scaring me now, Sherlock."

"I don't want to Molly, but maybe I need to, because it is vital you understand what I'm going to say. Please, will you hear me out, and then we can discuss it, ok?"

She frowned and nodded, and then, asking him to hang on a second, she climbed out of the enormous bed and went into the bathroom. She emerged minutes later wrapped in a plush white toweling dressing gown. She threw one to him.

"This sounds too serious for us to be naked." He snorted with laughter and then caught her look and looked chastened. "I'm sorry Molly, but you really can be terribly funny."

She folded her arms across her chest and raised her brows at him. He hastily grabbed the dressing gown, and, clambering out of the bed, he put it on. He walked over to her and gripped her lightly by her upper arms.

"At least sit down Molly, please. You're scaring me now!"

She laughed, albeit reluctantly, and sat down on the couch. Sherlock began to slowly pace the floor.

"Molly, this is all new to me," he gestured to her and him, "not the sex, persay, but the relationship. I've never wanted a 'relationship' before so what I'm going to say is new for me too." He sighed deeply and ran a frustrated hand through his hair. "If the events of the past week have proven anything, it is that the nature of my work will sometimes present an unacceptable level of danger to those I love." She paled visibly in front of his eyes, and he shook his head reprovingly at her. Then he softened his tone.

"I said hear me out Molly. I could no more cut you out of my life now, then I could stop being me, being a detective. The two things are set in stone. Quite simply, you are what makes my heart function, and the work helps my head function. You both keep me alive; keep me honest, and make me want to be the best that I can be."  He tilted her chin up to look at him. Her big doe eyes were brimming with tears. "For once and for all, will you get that into your head, my love?" and she smiled and wiped a tear and nodded at him firmly.

"Good," he said gently. Then he continued. "However, because of the work, there are things that are going to be necessary, that may not be pleasant. Firstly, Molly, will you consider taking self-defence classes?  If you do, before long it will be much more difficult for anyone to inflict the level of injuries on you that those two scumbags managed a few days ago. I could teach you, but it may be better to set you up with other experts, more objective than I. Also, you will need to be fit and strong. You will need to be able to run at least five kilometers without stopping to draw breath." She nodded in agreement.

"I was thinking of doing that anyway Sherlock. Aoife and I had a chat about possible options over our coffee this morning." He smiled and nodded at her, pleased, and pleased with Aoife's gentle guidance.

"Right, good," he sighed deeply, and then he looked apprehensively at her. "Molly, sometimes, critical danger may come at a moment's notice, or with no notice at all. Basically, you must be prepared to have to leave me Molly, suddenly and at any time, day or night, and go to a safe house, or," and he sighed, "a safe country..." Her eyes popped wide in shock.

"Sherlock, no!"

"Molly, you said you'd listen! Please, let me finish." She frowned and started to fidget with her fingers. She looked down at her hands and nodded her head very slightly for him to continue.

"I sometimes deal with the most vicious and deadliest men and women in the world. People who will stop at nothing to prevent me from catching them. They will kidnap, torture, rape, or kill, some of them, to stop me, Molly, or to stop Mycroft. They will do that to you. They will do it to the children I want to have with you, if we can have them. Mycroft will have the same concerns as me now, and will have the same responses in place for Aoife. Our parents have been under the maximum security level for years."

He paused to draw breath. Her head was down and he couldn't read her. He frowned and continued. "So, perhaps, one day, and without notice, you will get a coded message and, when you do, you will get into the black government car that will arrive to collect you. Then you will have to disappear for weeks or months. You may even have to change your looks or change your identity. " She sat rigidly on the couch, reeling in shock. "I'm sorry to be so blunt Molly, but I needed to warn you."

He stopped talking then and looked anxiously at her. Her hands were trembling and she was breathing rapidly, trying to suck more oxygen into her lungs. Sherlock was consumed by a fear that threatened to overwhelmed him. He'd over-estimated her. She'd say no. She'd leave him. Of course she would. It was too much for any normal person to endure. He should have known. He should have stopped this before it started, left well enough alone. The silence dragged on in the room. His set his features in a hard grim line. Inhaling sharply, he said, coldly and disparagingly, 

"It's too much to ask of you. Don't worry about it Molly. Mycroft can sort out a flat for you and we can just leave it at that. Go our separate ways. You may need some bodyguards for a while, but it should all die down after a few months, and then you can just get on with your life." He waved a dismissive hand in her general direction.

Her head shot up at his words and she jumped to her feet, red faced and furious. Striding over to him she grabbed him by the front of his dressing gown and shook him as hard as her one hand would allow. 

"Don't you do that! Don't you fucking dare do that! You complete bastard! You know well that I am no more capable of leaving you then you are of leaving me. How could I? When I love the very bones of you! So shut up about that. I never want to hear you say anything like that again! Not ever! Are we clear?"

He stared down at her, nodding slightly, and he felt the relief pouring into him. Still she ranted at him.

"I am entitled to be shocked. I am entitled to be quiet, to need a few minutes to process distressing news, you great big pillock, without you expecting the worst, and turning into an icy cold dickhead. If you ever use that tone of voice to me again, I swear to God I will slap you hard, and you know I will!"

He peered down at her, this tiny, furious woman and amusement lit up his eyes. She was omnipotent to him now, his Molly. He couldn't resist provoking her further though.  

"Oh I do know Molly," and he rubbed his jaw in mock remembrance. "You do realise that you've referred to me as a 'penis' twice in one sentence? That's incredibly impressive, and hot, all at the same time, you magnificent woman!"

Molly's jaw dropped open at the sheer audacity of him, this man she bloody adored. She expelled a long breath out and shook her head in exasperation. She wrinkled her brows at him then and smirked boldly back at him. Then gripping the back of his head, she pulled his forehead down to hers and, hugging her arms around his neck, she stared intensely into his beautiful eyes for a long moment. Breathing deeply, she said quietly and firmly,

"I am never going to leave you Sherlock. Never. So will you get that into your head, for once and for all?", she echoed his words from earlier, and he held her tighter and and kissed her gently on the lips. Then whispering "yes Molly," into her ear, he stood for long minutes just holding her to him.

"So," she said then, giggling a little,  "as a matter of curiosity, just how many children are you planning on us having then?" and he snorted with laughter.

"Well it's hard to say Molly, but I do think we'd better crack on with it, you're not getting any younger..." She laughed hard. 

"So get on with it then, Mr. Holmes,"

He embraced her tightly to him for a second and then he gripped her by the hips and lifting her high, he threw her over his shoulder. She gasped and then peeled with laughter. He carried her across the bedroom floor and tossed her down on the bed.

"Whatever you say, Dr Hooper! Now, let's see how many times I can get you to call out my name." And he moved down to kiss her mouth. "It's most enjoyable to hear you, in fact I deduce.."

"Sherlock?"

"Mmm?"

"Do shut up and kiss me..., and no, that one doesn't count.."


	34. The Irish Connection

Chapter 34

Mycroft terminated his call to Vauxhall Cross, (MI6), in Aoife's study and emitted an exasperated sigh. So far they had no success in identifying the man who'd approached Molly in the store. They were still trawling through the thousands of images and some interesting personalities had emerged, but nothing of the man they sought.  He would have preferred if Sherlock had returned to the house with Molly until he was sure there was no serious threat but, well, Sherlock was a law onto himself. He couldn't really blame him though, for wanting to be alone with her, and she was very safe with him, but that entirely depended on the level of threat. That was what frustrated him. He didn't know and he hated not knowing, just as much as his brother.

Aoife knocked and then came into the room. "You don't have to knock on your own door Aoife," he said, smiling at her. He held out a hand to her, and she walked briskly over to him, smiling at the sight of him. She'd returned from Dublin, with a laden down Dr Watson, hours earlier but he'd been working, and she had been up to her eyes finalising the details of tomorrow evening's party.

"Well dearest, I wouldn't want to overhear any State secrets. They'll be calling me Mata Hari!" she joked. She stood beside his chair and took his hand as he leaned back to face her.

"Hardly, my dear," he replied, "although when a woman is as beautiful as you are, it's probably best that you're from a friendly nation..," and he kissed the back of her hand. She ran her fingers through his hair and then, there it was, that bold expression that he found impossible to resist.

"No, that won't do, I missed you today, and I want a proper 'hello'," she said, and sat on his knee. So he obliged with a grin. He pulled her into his arms and grasping the back of her head he drew her to him and kissed her thoroughly.

"Hello," He said then, and she giggled and hugged him to her. She sighed happily and held on to him, and then she asked,

"Did you have any luck?"

Pursing his lips in exasperation, he shook his head.

"Tell me again, exactly as you remember it," he asked, "and describe him as well as you can. Close your eyes and tell me what you recollect, how he moved, his face." So she did, and he asked her probing, open questions, trying to elicit as much detail as possible from her.

"Tell me how you felt, as he approached and took her hand, before he spoke at all." She frowned and concentrated.

"Oh!" she said, "I was uncomfortable, you're right, even before he spoke, my body alerted me to 'threat', then especially so when Molly gasped. she said afterwards it was because he squeezed her hand too tightly."

"Good, that's good. Anything else?" she pursed her lips thoughtfully and then nodded.

"His hair, I'm pretty sure it was a wig now. It had that unnatural sheen, nearly theatrical actually."

She paused then added, "Mycroft! his eyes!" She popped her own wide open and stared in alarm at him. "His eyes were too young for him. You know? They belonged to a younger man, someone much younger they seventy. What is going on? I thought he was possibly Moriarty senior, but he's not, is he?"

"It doesn't look like it, no." He agreed. "It could be someone their father hired, but it's all rather too fast, considering it was only yesterday that his offspring met their just deserts. That, however, doesn't mean it's not possible."

"It could be someone Sinead hired, on the off chance that she failed." Aoife speculated, then she sat up straight in alarm. "Or someone she managed to hold off, because she wanted to exact revenge herself!" She huffed exasperatedly. "Oh we just don't know enough yet. It's so frustrating."

She stood then and started to pace. "Logically, this has to be connected to the Moriarty's and not some other case of Sherlocks. If this was London, it could be anyone, let's face it, but it's not, and they were here already, although that said, flights from the UK into Dublin begin at 6;00am and arrive every fifteen minutes after that. So they could have arrived in this morning. Christ, Mycroft, we have a common travel area between our two countries, they could just walk straight through, UK and Irish passports holders.

"Actually Aoife, that should be quite helpful, as UK arrivals are streamed through a different channelled area altogether. That means we can facially screen all passengers arriving from the UK, and, we take their photo's at our end before departure. You're quite brilliant really my dear, aren't you? I am a very lucky man." That comment was rewarded with a huge grin.

"I think someone was waiting on the side lines to see how the Moriarty plan panned out." He continued, "As soon as it failed, he moved in. I think it's highly likely he only arrived in Dublin airport this morning."

"But how could he have known where we were?"

"Exactly Aoife, how? How many people knew you were going shopping this morning, and where? You were not followed, I'm sure of that."

"You and I, Sherlock and Molly, Michael, and John and Mary Watson. That's it. There's no one else. And before you say it, I trust Michael with my life." She said firmly. "Which brings us straight back to Mary Watson."

"No Aoife, Trust me on this. It wasn't her. It wasn't either of them."

"Then we were tracked. We must have been."

"Exactly!" Mycroft picked up his phone and called his agents covering Sherlock and Molly.

"Move the car out of there, now!. Check it for a tracking device, and disable the GPS locator system.", he said abruptly, and hung up. He knew that car in the Shelbourne car park had followed later, driven by his brother, but he needed to be sure. They were alone in a hotel room and Sherlock was bound to be distracted. Aoife did the same with her security team, ordering them to start with the car she drove that morning.

"That's how he did it Mycroft. I'm so stupid. He hacked the GPS in the Range Rover." She looked stricken.

"Aoife, stop that now. We all were relaxed this morning. We thought the danger was over. If it's anybody's fault, it's mine. Can you send another team to the Shelbourne please? It's best that they stay there tonight actually, and return in daylight in the morning." He sighed heavily then and sadness flickered over his face.

"Poor Molly. None of this is fair. They were both so happy this morning," He said sadly to her. She was silent for a minute, and then said determinedly.

"We don't know enough yet Mycroft. It may be nothing. Or someone without any serious intentions. We'll find out and we'll catch him Mycroft, and we'll help Sherlock and Molly. They're not on their own in this. We won't stop until we catch him."

He nodded and lifting his phone, he called his brother to let him know the latest. Sherlock was careful in his responses, making Mycroft aware that Molly was listening. The discussed the party then, and whether to cancel it, but they agreed not to. All the guests invited were locals or colleagues of Aoife's. Local people had been hired as catering and bar staff. Security would be upped at the gates but they were content to let the event occur. Both agreed it could be 'something and nothing' and not to overreact. Anyway, Sherlock joked, he had no intentions of cancelling his Mother, and Mycroft wouldn't dare.

Sherlock hung up the phone to his brother, carefully masking the extent of his concern. Molly was sitting up in the bed beside him, the sheet wrapped around her and hooking her knees in her arms. She looked pensively at him and he smiled reassuringly.

"So they don't know who that man is yet?" She asked him and he shook his head.

"Not yet Molly, but let's not worry about it further. You heard Mycroft, they're taking extra precautions and changing the car. I refuse to let anyone impinge on our immediate plans. Not until we know more." He smiled easily at her and reached over to her.  "Now, what are you doing over there?"  She laughed and moved back into his arms. "Go asleep now Molly, you've quite worn me out, and I'm going to need all my facilities for tomorrow. It appears Michael Reilly has pulled a fast one on me, and is an Irish fiddle playing champion!"  Molly laughed heartily, and snuggled into his chest.

"Oh," she gasped, "this is going to be good!" And he laughed too. Tilting her chin up to him he kissed her tenderly on the lips.

"Isn't it though?" He responded huskily, and she knew he wasn't referring to the violin.

 


	35. The Irish Connection

Chapter 35

Molly very quickly fell deeply asleep in Sherlock's arms. He looked at her tenderly, thinking how much he loved watching her sleep. She had the slightest of smiles on her face and her breathing was deep and even. Her body was healing well from her assault, he thought, considering all the upheaval, and her pain level was much reduced. She was managing the ache in her wrist now, with just paracetamol. He thought, not for the first time, how resilient and brave she was. He was hoping she wouldn't need that resilience too soon again. He sighed deeply and ran over the incident in the store again in his mind palace. He was very uneasy about it. He had literally just prevented an attempt on her life. To have another threat, so soon, was pretty unprecedented. His mind raced with the possible motivation for it but he couldn't narrow it down. It was possible that it could have been someone connected to the raids of the other night, out for revenge, but it was just another theory. He had nothing concrete to go on.

Slipping out of bed, he donned the dressing gown again and checked in with the British agents stationed outside the door of their suite. The men confirmed that their car had been replaced and that the Irish undercover Special Branch were combing the hotel, which was very busy, as it was a popular watering hole with Dubliners and tourists alike. Their corridor was quiet however, as Mycroft had booked out the entire floor, and his men reassured Sherlock that they were both quite safe. He thanked them and returned to his room.

He sat on one of the plush chairs, hands steepled under his chin, and looked across at his pathologist, his lover now. He knew that regretting being with her was pointless. Their union was unavoidable, inevitable, but he couldn't help feeling that they were 'damned if they do, and damned if they don't'. He also knew that he was prepared to do anything to protect her. He would have to make hard choices, when necessary, for both of them, because he knew she never would. Grimly, he picked up his phone and texted his brother,

 ** _'Please make preliminary arrangements to move Molly to a safe house.'_   **Seconds later his phone beeped a message back.

_**'Already done. Try not to worry? Get some sleep. Talk in the morning.'**   _

Sherlock managed a half smile. His brother was getting very sentimental. He was grateful to him though, he admitted to himself, because he knew that Molly's safety was a priority for his brother, just as Aoife's well-being was important to him now too. Molly murmured his name in her sleep and he smiled, amused, because she sounded like she was scolding him. He shook off the dressing gown and climbed back into bed beside her. She seemed to sense him and her hand reached over and rested on his chest. He covered it with his and settled down to sleep himself.

The suns strong Winter rays broke through a narrow gap in the thick hotel curtains early the next morning. Molly woke first, to find his warm hand resting possessively on her hip, and she drank in the sight of him, lying peacefully asleep beside her. The natural beam of light lit up his face, and flattered him, picking up the hint of auburn in his dark curls and further shadowed his sharp cheekbones and the strong curve of his jaw. She thought again how beautiful he was, and she felt an overwhelming surge of emotion. This man, whom she had loved for so long, was hers now, she knew he was, heart and soul. He had certainly proved it last night and staked his own claim on her.

She thought back on the night before with borderline disbelief. She had never come apart to the extent that she had last night with any other lover, and she knew intrinsically that it was because, his considerable skills aside, she had never loved anybody the way she loved him. She slid out of the bed to relieve herself and brush her teeth, but she didn't linger and soon lay back down beside him. She relished this time with him, and it was rare that he actually slept while she was awake. So she just lay and looked at him, and resisted the temptation to caress him. Suddenly his lips twitched. "You're staring Molly." She laughed gently and murmured,

"I am not. I'm just facing in your direction." Sharp aquamarine eyes flashed open in amusement at her, and a sardonic eyebrow lifted, 

"Fibbing, Molly." She laughed again and succumbing to temptation, she ran her fingers through his curls and stroked his cheekbone with the back of her fingers.

"Well if I am, It's your fault. Your beautiful head is in my way.."

He rolled his eyes, and pursing his mouth, he kissed her fingers as they reached his lips.  She exclaimed in surprise as he grabbed her and rolled her beneath him. Towering over her he ran a hand through her hair, brushing it off her face, and leaning down, kissed her firmly. Heat rushed through Molly again and she wrapped her legs tightly around him, gripping his hips to her, and kissed him back with all the passion she felt for him. He groaned into her mouth. He wanted her again, was ready for her again.

"Molly?" he gasped the question, and she reached down, taking him into her in answer.

"Please Sherlock, please?" and he moved deeply and fiercely within her. She met him thrust for thrust, and he brought them both to new and headier heights, and she shook and shuddered out her pleasure beneath him.

"Christ, Molly, I love you," he gasped out, as he followed her. Then, as he opened his eyes, he saw tears falling slowly down the sides of her face. His heart clenched in his chest, and he bent his head to kiss them away. She pulled him down fully on top of her, wrapping her limbs around him tightly. He nuzzled into her neck.

"I'm crushing you Molly."

"Oh hush you, you're not. I like it. Stay there a minute." So he laughed and kissed into her neck. He shifted then slightly and rested his head on her chest, stroking her hip languorously. 

"This is fast becoming one of my favourite positions." She sniggered mischievously.  

"Really? I can think of a few that top it!" He chuckled deeply.

"You, Dr. Hooper, are a very wicked woman." She laughed softly and sighed contentedly. Then her tummy growled with hunger and he laughed, and leaned over to pick up the hotel phone.

"I'm ordering breakfast for us and then I'm afraid, we'll have to make a move. Don't forget, my parents are on their way too, Molly." She gasped in shock.

"Forget??, you know bloody well you never told me that, you git! Oh my God! When?" He roared with laughter.

"Stop panicking. They'll adore you."

"Will they? Why will they?" He tilted her head at her, puzzled at her question.

"Because I do." And that, it appeared, was that.

The left the hotel, showered and fed, and were on the motorway out of Dublin within the hour.  Sherlock noted that their new vehicle had bullet proof glass and that they had an armed escort. Aoife had provided a driver too, so he opted to sit in the back with Molly. He was keen to get to the sanctuary of the house and was relieved that their motorcade, keeping to a steady speed, and using sirens when necessary to clear their path, swept through the gates of Aoife's house forty minutes later. Molly went up to see Mary and the baby and before she did, she whispered to him that she was going to have a nap afterwards because she was 'a bit tired' and he smirked smugly at her. She rolled her eyes and ran, laughing, up the stairs.

Mycroft watched her go from the study door and smiled at his brother.

"She looks happy."

Sherlock, clasping his hands behind his back, couldn't resist turning to watch her as she disappeared down the landing to Mary and John's room. He turned back solemnly then and looked at his brother.

"She is, and I'd like her to stay that way, obviously. Show me what you've got?" The brothers went into the study and Mycroft ran the film of the incident in the store for Sherlock. He agreed with Mycroft, there was nothing to be garnered from it and the suspect was very careful. Aoife came in to greet him and he took her hands, squeezed them and kissed her cheek. She smiled with fondness at him.

"My mother is going to fawn all over you, Sherlock, when she sees you. Be warned!" Mycroft sniggered,

"Oh he's used to that Aoife, our own Mother has fawned over him our entire lives!" Sherlock laughed deeply.

"Well, she has always displayed impeccable taste.."

"This is the same woman who also adores popular musicals, brother mine" and the two men laughed.

The house was a hive of activity for the rest of the afternoon. Caterers and bar staff streamed through the house and out into the marquee, setting up for the evening. All had been screened by security and all faces were familiar and safe. Aoife had relinquished her own master bedroom for the Holmes' and moved in with Mycroft, who'd asked her, only half joking, if he was to expect the wrath of her father. She laughed and told him softly that "he just wants me to be happy Mycroft. It's all he's ever wanted, since Oisín, and he will see that I am, with you."

He took her into his arms then and kissed her and held her hand as he greeting his parents at the door. His parents took one look at their clasped hands, and their sons face, and his mother gasped and grabbed a laughing Aoife into a bear hug. Then she swept her eldest son into her arms and exclaimed,, "Well done, my boy, she's quite lovely!" As she shook his fathers hand he laughed too, and kissed her on the cheek.

"Yes, Mother, she is. Now, wait until I tell you about Sherlock..."

"Do shut up Mycroft!" and his Mother and Father looked up and saw their youngest son, beaming with pride, and holding the hand of a lovely, but apprehensive looking, young woman, as he led her down the staircase to greet them. His mother's hand flew up to her mouth with astonishment, and tears filling her eyes, she held out her hands to Molly.

"Oh my goodness! I know who you are! You're Dr Hooper, Molly. I bloody knew it! Finally come to his senses, has he? How are you my dear? And she enveloped Molly in a warm embrace. Molly's nerves disappeared and she hugged her back. As Aoife led the women into the living room for afternoon tea, their father held both of his sons back in the hall.

"I have always been proud of both of you, but never more proud then I was this week. Individually, you are both quite brilliant and excel in your fields, but when you combine your skills, you are unstoppable. Well done, my sons." As his two sons stared at him, dumbstruck, he laughed then and added, "you've also made your mother very happy indeed. She was beginning to give up on the notion of having grandchildren altogether.." and he led his two sheepish looking sons into the living room.

 

 


	36. The Irish Connection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This, kind readers, is the penultimate chapter of this story of mine. Thanks for sharing the journey and I shall be continuing on with a Part 2.

Chapter 36

Aoife's parents arrived soon afterwards and her mother did falter slightly at meeting Sherlock. He was expecting it and smiled kindly at her. She shook her head, and gripped his hand in both of hers. "It's an extraordinary likeness, Sherlock, thank you so much for all you've done," she looked at Mycroft too then, "both of you, to help right this terrible wrong that was done to our family." Mycroft looked at this woman, so poised and dignified, and held out his hand to her. She smiled at him and gripped it firmly, "and you, Mycroft, for putting a sparkle in Aoife's eye!"

"Mother!" Aoife exclaimed, blushing furiously, and her parents and Mycroft laughed together, the ice broken permanently between them. They joined the others then in the living room and Sherlock groaned inwardly. Polite conversation was definitely 'not his area' but he was on his best behaviour, for Molly, and for his Mother. Before long though, Molly took his hand and interrupted the conversation.

"Excuse me everyone, for a minute. Sherlock, don't you have to go and rehearse for later?" and he looked at her in awe.

"I do Molly, you're right. That Michael is a tricky character and I have to familiarise myself with the violin." He whispered in her ear, "you're bloody marvellous Molly Hooper,"and she smothered a giggle.

"You can thank me later," she whispered back, and he cocked a devilish brow at her, making her giggle again.

His mother watched the easy teasing of her son's interactions with his tenacious and brave young woman, and how her eyes lit up when she looked at him, and she swallowed a lump in her throat. She called Molly over to sit with her as he hurriedly left the living room, and they chatted together comfortably. Sherlock ran up the stairs to their bedroom, like a child released from class. He grabbed the violin, and his coat and made for the beach. He also wanted to escape the hustle and bustle of the household preparations. After a while, as the light died in the sky, John came and joined him. The two friends smiled at each other and looked out at the sea, silent for a little while.

"How's my Goddaughter?" Sherlock said eventually and John chuckled.

"Wait 'til you're asked, mate, and you'd know how she is, you git, if you paid her a visit."

"Well, to be fair John, I've been a bit busy."

"So I've heard, Casanova!" and Sherlock laughed disparagingly.

"Oh no John, he spread it around. Molly's the only one for me." John looked at him and smiled.

"She really is, isn't she?" and Sherlock sighed and nodded at him.

"I heard about the approach in the store. Any idea who it was or what it was all about?" Sherlock shook his head and said nothing else. John knew enough not to dismiss his concerns though and just said,

"You'll find out Sherlock," and he paused and replied,

"Yes John, I will. That's what worries me most." John looked at him, puzzled, but didn't say anything else. Clapping his hand on his friends back, he said then,

"Let's go on in mate, parties starting and I've a bet to win."

"Have you indeed? Who's your money on then?" and John laughed out loud.

"I know better then to bet against Sherlock Holmes!" and his friend laughed too as they turned back to the house.

John told Sherlock that he'd been thrown out of his room by Mary as the women had decided to prepare there for the party and laughingly told him that they had arrived into the room giddy and laden with bundles and bags, Aoife also waving a bottle of champagne and glasses as she closed the door behind him. The friends headed for the study to join Mycroft for a drink. Michael found them there and signalled Sherlock.

"We've been questioning the arrestees for most of the day Sherlock, and none of them seem to know anything about threats to Molly. We even offered a deal to a couple of guys, well in on the scene, but they genuinely don't seem to know anything." Mycroft added that it was a similar story in the UK.

"What of the patriarch, Moriarty's father?"

"The word there is that he disappeared to America well over a decade ago, Sherlock, and nothing since. Perhaps Mycroft can follow up there?"

"I can and will," Mycroft agreed, "but Michael, there's strong sections of Irish Americans in almost every major city who'd sooner talk to the likes of you then the British Government, or the FBI for that matter." Michael nodded. He knew that to be true.

"The likelihood is that he has gone to ground in one of those places, that type like to stick with their own kind," Michael said. "We do have a network in all the major US cities, we needed to ensure that certain parties really had 'retired' after the Good Friday Agreement," he added, and Mycroft looked knowingly at him in response.

"That's excellent news, but please Michael," Sherlock said then, "do not make any move until I say so? The last thing we need is for him to be tipped off and run to ground before we can get a lead on him."

Michael nodded in agreement and then added quietly to Sherlock, "If you're going on a hunt across the pond Sherlock, I'd come with you, my accent holds great currency in some of those places." Sherlock looked at him, surprised and touched, then responded, in a flawless south Dublin accent,

"I'd be very glad to have you Michael, go raibh maith agut (thank you). Michael shook his head in astonishment and laughed.

"Na habair é!" (don't mention it) and shook his hand. John laughed and looking at Sherlock, told him he sounded exactly like Jim Moriarty and not to do that again, his nerves weren't up to it yet, and the men all laughed.

Soon the house was filling up with guests and the musicians began playing in the marquee. Mary knocked and entered the study, all dolled up in a fetching black dress, her dancing blue eyes searching for John. Marie had volunteered to sit with Fionnuala for a couple of hours to give her a break and let her join the merriment.The men stood and John gave her a peck on the lips, telling her she looked stunning.

"Well come on then lads, we have a party to go to," she said as she led them out to the hall, just in time to see Molly and Aoife as they came down the stairs together. The two Holmes brothers stood stock still and stared at the women, jaws open, and the two women looked at each other and laughed.

"That'll do nicely!" Aoife purred as he walked into Mycroft's arms, resplendent in a petrol blue silk knee length dress, that hugged her curves, and showed off her toned legs, emphasised further by her grey patent leather stiletto shoes. Molly stood still on the second last stair, looked shyly down at Sherlock as he scanned her. She was wearing a Harve Leger signature bandage dress, in a deep claret red, cut just over her knees. It had simple, fitted cap sleeves and dipped in a v shape to her cleavage. Her hair was in an 'up style' and her feet were encased in three inch beige sandals, with a band that wrapped around the ankle. Sherlock stood staring at her and forgot to breath. She chewed her bottom lip nervously.

"Well, will I do?"

He exhaled with an incredulous laugh.

"Will you do? Will you?...come here to me woman!" and he held out his arms. She giggled, impervious to the others, and jumped into them, wrapping her arms around his neck. He caught her around her waist and lifted her off the ground. She laughed and ran her hands along his shoulders, admiring his fitted black jacket.

"You look completely stunning Molly. My God!"

Molly hugged him into her and nuzzled into his neck.

"Well, you bought it for me. So thank you, I kind of love it."

"Not half as much as I do," he growled, "actually, about that, I do have something for you," turning to the others who were smiling indulgently at the two of them, and he grinned and excused them, and ushered Molly ahead of him into the study. He sat down on the couch and pulled her onto his lap. She ran a hand along his chest.

"Your shirt is the same colour as my dress?," she enquired and he raised one eyebrow at her. "Oh, Aoife Quinn!"

"Yes, she left strict instructions for me to wear it."

"She's been so kind to me Sherlock, to both of us really. I think we'll be good friends, you know."

"I agree, Molly, but I don't want to talk about Aoife right now."

"Oh yes! a present! What is it Sherlock?"

"Right, yes well, Molly, do you know the tradition of the Claddagh ring?" Her eyes popped and she nodded at him.

"Yes, the ring with the crowned heart held in a pair of hands, and if you wear it with the heart facing in, towards your own, then you're in love, and if it faces out, you're available?"

"The very one, well.."

Sherlock pulled out a ring box from his jacket pocket. She beamed at him and he grinned back at her.

"I do want to marry you Molly Hooper, but this is not a formal proposal, per say, it's more of a promise, from me to you, with a bit of 'you're mine and no one else's' mixed in.." She kissed him long and hard. Then he grinned at her, and opened the dark velvet box, and she gasped.

"Oh my God Sherlock!" The ring was platinum, with a thick band of white diamonds encrusted all the way around the band, linking into a large deep green emerald heart in it's centre. The hands holding the emerald were polished and smooth, as was the crown. It was gorgeous and her eyes filled with tears. He took it out and slid it onto her ring finger, the heart pointing towards hers, and then kissed it. She hugged him into her chest and carded her fingers through his hair. Leaning down, she whispered into his ear.

"I love you Sherlock Holmes, I always have, from the first moment I clapped eyes on you, and I always will...no matter what happens."  He jerked his head up to look at her and she smiled sadly and knowingly at him and ran her fingers through his hair again. Then she laughed, a little too brightly, and jumped up and pulled him with her. "Come on you, we have a party to go to!"

He knew that was all she would say on the matter so he wrapped his arm around her shoulders drawing her close to him and they joined the others at their table in the marquee.

 

 

 

 

 


	37. The Irish Connection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is it guy's. The end of Part 1. Do tune in for Part 2, as yet untitled. I have it plotted somewhat but would like to get a few chapters completed before I start publishing so it may be a week or two. I need a little break too. I never envisaged the story to grow to this when it all began! Thank you all for the kudos and kindness. It is amazing how encouraging it is.

Chapter 37

An hour later and the party was in full swing. The Holmes's senior had started the dancing with a very professional set piece, setting the bar very high, and the crowd duly obliged. The Irish ceili band were very competent with the bodhran (drum) player setting the tempo and the fiddlers leading the tunes. It was raucous and fun, especially when those with set dancing expertise demonstrated for the rest of the motley crew, and hilarity ensued. Pints of Guinness were flowing and faces were smiling and glowing with the exertions on the dance floor.

Sherlock dragged Molly up, shouting in her ear that they could hold their own and soon they had a crowd encircling them and clapping along with their efforts. He was fluid and graceful and he swirled and swung her around his body and she managed to keep up with him respectfully, throwing her head back with laughter, as he wrapped and unwrapped her around him, culminating in throwing her high in the air and catching her in his arms. He bowed dramatically to the crowd and led her back to his laughing friends and family.

Then Aoife took the microphone and the band quietened. The crowd of her community and colleagues turned and cheered and whistled for her and she laughed and hushed them. She welcomed them all and thanked them on behalf of her family, (there was a murmur of respect from the crowd), and also on behalf of her guests, 'from across the Irish Sea' and they clapped and cheered again, one of them giving a very loud wolf whistle..

"Yes, thank you Michael.." and the crowd roared with laughter. "Speaking of Michael, earlier this week, when things were...undetermined, Michael Reilly made a bet with the very brilliant Sherlock Holmes that he could better him at something.,"

"We'll have to ask the women about that!" someone shouted from the crowd and Aoife laughed again.

"No we will not now! Behave yourselves!" She grinned and continued "You all know Michael's ability as a fiddle player. However, we are not so familiar with Sherlock's skill yet. However, to be fair, he set the terms and would appear to have stacked them against himself. You guys are to be the judges. Whomever you make the most noise for, quite simply, is the winner. They'll play together to warm up, so back on the dance floor with you all. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome, Mr Michael Reilly and Mr Sherlock Holmes!"

Sherlock and Michael, seated across the dance floor from each other, stood up to tumultuous applause. Sherlock took off his jacket and slowly rolled up his sleeves and one of the women gave a loud wolf whistle. He flashed a wide grin in her general direction and turned from the room to bend slightly, providing a pleasant demonstration of just how bespoke his suit was, and picked up his violin. A murmur of appreciation, of a very female persuasion, flew through the crowd and Mycroft and Johns shoulders began to shake with laughter. Mary snorted at his antics and Aoife clasped her hand to her mouth, laughing hard into it. He was a devious git and she loved him.

Molly gaped at him, open mouthed in astonishment. He was bloody seducing half the room before he even lifted his bow. He winked at her and then bowed from the waist, to his own table, back to the audience, lest anybody missed it the first time. Then he spun around, all twinkly eyed and irresistible grin and bellowed across the room, "Well come on Michael, our audience awaits!" and Michael shook his head at him in disbelief, roared with laughter and the two men approached the raised platform.

"You jammy git!" Michael accused his new friend, laughing incredulously at his performance and Sherlock shrugged his shoulders in his 'who? me?" gesture. Both men bowed to the crowd and raised their bows, and nodding out the time to each other, they began to play. They had agreed on the first three tunes, popular rock folk Irish ballads, long loved by the people of Ireland, as well as all over the world. They started with an up tempo version of [There's Whiskey in the Jar](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8eOIU9ekSMk) and the crowd jumped to their feet and bellowed out the lyrics as the two men played each note in complete synchronicity.

Michael and Sherlock grinned at each other, both appreciating the skills of the other man. They rolled straight into [An Dearg Doom, by the Horslips](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ugzy2s5Xdq0) and with the familiar, and oh so Celtic beat, that lay beneath the surface of the heart of a nation. The crowd roared out the lyrics and clapped thunderously along with the musicians. The men moved and swayed with the rhythm, loving the music and the reaction of the audience to their playing. Then the two men culminated their duet with of the most difficult and beloved of all of Irish traditional music. A piece specifically written for the fiddle, ['The Irish Washerwoman'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cFBRaIOI85k) and every man and woman rose to their feet and jumped and danced to the tune they knew and loved so well.  

Then Sherlock stood back and Michael launched into his chosen solo repertoire starting with ['One' by U2](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xr_lIMF3BR0) and the crowd clapped and roared approval at his selection, knowing that he was acknowledging their nearest neighbours, and their tight relationship now, and what they had just achieved together. So they chanted out 'we're one, but we're not the same, we've got to carry each other, carry each other, one love.." and Aoife took Mycroft hand in hers and wiped a stray tear from her eye. He continued with popular favourites, couldn't resist the Irish rugby anthem, [Ireland's Call](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2MWBBwQOtU0) because the sport was in his blood, and the crowd stood with him, belting out the chorus. Michael ended with a rousing session of ['Dirty Old Town' ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s11BuatTuXk)a popular and familiar Irish ballad, fondly representing their capital city and he finished to wild applause.

Sherlock stood still beside him and waited them out. Then Michael stood back and Sherlock stepped up to the microphone. The crowd hushed, and he addressed them, but his eyes searched out Molly Hooper. " I'd like to dedicate this little medley to Dr Molly Hooper, my Molly, because, well, she knows why."

A hushed silence descended on the room and Sherlock raised his arms again and began to play. The plaintive and evocative notes of Ireland's unofficial national anthem rang out, a heart breaking tune that told the story of harsher times during the worst years of British occupation and the forced separation of lovers, ['The Fields of Athenry'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zr1rzSSMsac) .

It was a brave and provocative choice for an Englishman to make. He played it as it should be played, every note achingly telling the story, and for the two new lovers it also represented the lonely years he spent away from her, 'dead' to the world. But Molly also knew he was also acknowledging the painful history between their two countries and it was hugely appreciated by his audience. They didn't sing along, as they possibly would have with Michael, but sat in appreciative silence at the gesture, and all the time Sherlock's eyes were locked on Molly.

He didn't stop playing, and went straight into a stunning rendition of ['Danny Boy, The Derry Air'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E6BlRBcxkw8&list=RDE6BlRBcxkw8#t=15) and the audience held their breath at the beauty of his playing and the emphasis and nuance he gave every plaintive note of the internationally beloved Irish story of lost love. Still Sherlock looked at Molly and she couldn't tear her eyes away from him either. He stopped then and there was complete silence in the room and he kept his eyes only on her, then he bowed his head to her, and began to play ['The Long and Winding Road' by The Beatles](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q_1kCALVX28) 

Molly got to her feet as he played for her and as he neared the end the tears pooled in her eyes. It was an extraordinary demonstration for a man who struggled with his emotions and the entire room knew he had poured his heart into every note. There was complete silence as the last note carried into the air. Then Sherlock lowered his bow and violin and held out his hand for her.

She ran across the floor to him and he jumped off the platform to meet her and gathering her into his arms, his kissed his Molly and the crowd roared their approval, because they were Irish and they knew how to love and when they loved they loved like these two, with passion and and heart and soul. So they clapped and stamped their feet and chanted his name. He released her, smiling widely, and holding her hand, he bowed to the audience.  

Michael jumped down and grabbing Sherlock's hand, he raised their two arms aloft, laughingly acknowledging Sherlock as the winner, and the two men grinned at each other. The noise died down slightly and Sherlock addressed Michael, "right you, where's my prize?" and the crowd roared laughing. He looked suspiciously at them then and raised an enquiring eyebrow at them and then Michael. "Well?" Michael grinned like a Cheshire cat.

"Oh yes, your prize. Patrick, throw it here."

"Right you are Michael," to more laughter and a parcel flew in the air and was caught by Michael.

"Here you go Sherlock" Sherlock laughed loudly as he opened the packet to reveal an official Irish International rugby shirt and Molly peeled with laughter too. She took it from him and tugging him down to her by the shoulders, she pulled it over his head and the crowd went mad. He conceded defeat and pushed his arms through the sleeves and amid all the noise he glanced over at his table.

His parents were smiling and clapping their hands gleefully, but then, from the corner of his eye he could see that Mycroft had stilled Mary with his hand and was playing something on his mobile for her. The smile fell from her face and she gripped Mycroft's wrist to steady the image. Then she froze and looked up at his brother in horror. Her hand flew up to her mouth and Mary Watson began to cry. She looked over at Sherlock and Molly and then back to Sherlock and shook her head in distress at him. His heart twisted in dread and he pulled Molly instinctively to him.

He watched as if from afar as Mycroft approach him, his brother's expression frozen with shock himself, and he felt like this was all happening in slow motion. Molly turned rigid beside him. Christ, he realised, she knew too, she could read Mycroft's body language, and then as the melee continued all around them, his brother, broken hearted, said, "it's Sebastian Moran, Sherlock. Mary recognised him. You've got two hours at most and then I'm afraid Molly must go."

Molly moaned out "no" and slipping from his grasp, she ran from the room. She took off as fast as she could out of the marquee and towards the beach. She ripped off her high heeled sandals and ran through the damp cold grass in her bare feet. Sherlock took off after her and caught up with easily. He reached out to grab her arm but she shook him off, and screaming at him to "go away, leave me alone!" she kept running to the beach. He stood stock still, in shock himself at how rapidly their happiness had collapsed around them, and watched her as she ran, sobbing, away from him.

His heart was racing in his chest and he was hyper alert to danger all around them. He snapped himself out of it and took off after her, and catching her on the beach, he gripped her hard and pulled her up sharply against him. She struggled and pummelled him, screaming at him to let her go. But he held her tightly against him, holding her head firmly to his chest and wrapping a long arm around her to trap hers and stop her striking out at him.

"Molly stop! Just stop this! It's too dangerous out here and we are completely exposed! We have to get inside, now!" Still she struggled against him for long minutes and then she slumped in utter despair against him.

"It's not fair Sherlock," she said, broken voiced, "we didn't even get our week together, not even a week..." Sherlock jerked her head up to look at him.

"We will have it Molly, we will. If you do this now we'll have years. If you do not we may not even have days. He's the world's top sniper, and right now I cannot protect you from a snipers bullet."

She looked at him for long seconds, deathly pale and quiet now, and his heart broke, because he could see her shutting down in front of his eyes. She turned blankly towards the house, her arms crossed as tightly as her cast would allow, and walked a few feet ahead of him. Then she suddenly dropped to her knees and emptied the contents of her stomach onto the grass.

"Molly!" but she waved him away and swiped her hand across her mouth, quietly spitting out the residue. He dropped to his knees beside her and placing a gentle hand on her back, he pulled out a tissue from his pocket and wiped her face and hands. She appeared dazed and disorientated. She shook her head and moved him away from her with her hand, and getting to her feet shakily, she turned again towards the house, wincing involuntarily as she trod on a sharp pebble in the grass. Sherlock expelled a shaky breath and scooped her up. Lifting her easily, he carried her in his arms, striding quickly towards the house. Molly wrapped her arms around his neck and lay her head on his shoulder and was silent.

John and Mary were waiting at the back door for them, and Mary was still distressed. They stepped out to meet their friends but Sherlock brushed by them with a brusque "not now..." and carried Molly through the kitchen and up the stairs towards their bedroom.  He thought how incongruous the noise of the party was now, as their world was falling apart. He walked past a stricken looking Aoife and he winced, knowing his brother was in the study making arrangements to have his Molly taken away.

His heart swelled in his chest and he felt it like a physical pain. He carried her into their room and closed the door. He sat on the bed and held her tightly on his lap and in his arms but she stayed silent and he thought he had never seen her so pale. She was trembling uncontrollably and he could feel her heart racing against his chest. Then she emitted a sound that was visceral. Molly keened tearlessly in his arms and the sound of it stabbed at his heart. He went rigid in shock. He gripped her to him and rocked her in his arms, pulling her face against his cheek.

"Don't Molly, please don't. I can't bear it. I swear to you, I'll get him and then you can come home to me, darling. Don't!, please Molly!" and his voice cracked and a tear fell down his face and she heard him. She heard the desperation in his voice. She sucked in deep breaths, lifted her head to look at him, and saw his tears threatening to spill. She gripped his head in her hands and a small brave smile floated on her lips.

"I'm going to have to brush my teeth because I desperately want to kiss you right now. Can you unzip my dress please? I also intend to have you in the shower and Mycroft is going to have to bloody well wait. And I'll tell you something else Sherlock Holmes, I'm not taking off my ring for anybody, and that is final."

Sherlock stared at her, stunned. He expelled an incredulous laugh and then smirked at her.

"Oh, there's my girl. There's my bloody magnificent girl!"

She smiled gently at him and turned around and he tugged the zip down her back. Her dress fell away from her shoulders and down her hips and he reached his hand up to stroke her back and unhook her bra clasp. She slipped it off and keeping her back to him she tilted her head in an unspoken command, and he reached up and unclipped her hair. It tumbled in waves down her back and he inhaled deeply. Molly stood up and her dress fell to the floor. She walked to the bathroom and flicked on the light. She turned to look at him then and smiled seductively at him.

"Well, are you going to sit there all night?" and he laughed and jumping to his feet, he ripped the rugby shirt and then his own shirt off, toed off his shoes, and followed her into the bathroom. He watched her as she brushed her teeth and reached over and stroking her, he undressed her completely, and then himself, and turned on the shower. She raised her arms up to him, and gazing at him, she said, "lift me."

"Oh Molly!" he said and gripping her waist, he lifted her and she clamped her legs and arms around him and kissed him deeply." He lifted his head to suck in a deep breath and muttered, "watch that bloody cast Molly, if you get it wet it will have to be replaced again!" and as she kissed him she giggled into his mouth.

"That's very romantic Sherlock, I'll take that with me and savour it every night I'm away from you!" He laughed hard at her and growled into her mouth.

"I'll give you something to savour, Molly Hooper!" and he thrust up into her and she gasped and moved with him. As he made love to her he whispered to her that he loved her and that she had to stay safe and well and healthy for him. She promised him she'd try, and cried out her love to him, showing him with her body and soul, and as they climaxed together she swore to herself that she would not cry in front of him again that night.

He washed and dried her and helped her dress into a warm fitted track suit. They didn't say much else to each other and he packed her case for her, letting her direct him even though she didn't know where she was going or what she would need. He promised her that all of her other belongings would be sent to Baker Street. She picked up her photo album and checking his letter was inside, she placed it carefully in the case. Her eyes searched the room then and, finding their target, she picked the rugby shirt up off the floor where he'd tossed it. She folded it up and put it in her case. "I'll just mind it for you." She said and he swallowed back a large lump in his throat. Then he sat her on the bed beside him and gathered her into his arms.

"Do you think you can come and see me? Do you think you can you call me?" She asked him then, and he sighed and promised that he would do his best, but he wasn't quite sure what Mycroft had arranged yet. She went very quiet then and there wasn't much else he could do or say to comfort her. "I will do this Sherlock, for six months at the most, and then you and I will review the situation, together." He sighed and knew that was a battle for another day. He could barely contemplate six days at this point and he certainly wasn't going to upset her any further. So he nodded but made her promise to never ever leave on any ones else's say so but his.

"He may try to lure you out Molly. You may hear that I'm sick or injured or worse. Do not believe it. Do not leave, without my say so, unless Mycroft, John or Michael come for you. Nobody else. Do you understand?"

"What about Aoife or Mary?" He paused and shook his head. "Just those three. The others can be compromised."

"So can Mycroft and John now Sherlock, you know they can. Now that there's Fionnuala and Aoife." He whispered a word into her ear. "If they do not use that word, don't leave with any of them." She smiled shakily at him. He sat up then and sighed sadly and said,

"Mycroft's here." And his brother knocked on the door. She gasped and went pale again. He put her jacket on, and his own coat, and he picked up her case and taking her hand, he opened the door to his brother. A grim faced Mycroft looked gently at her and asked her softly,

"Are you ready, Dr Hooper?" and she bit hard into her bottom lip to stop from crying. Gripping Sherlock's hand tightly, they walked down the stairs together and Molly faltered as she saw her friends standing honour guard at the open hall door. Aoife and Molly, Michael and John stood in a line for her as she moved passed them. She nodded, unable to cope with hugs, and walked out the front door. 

She stopped at the car door and looked up at Sherlock. He gazed down at her and ran his thumb across her lip and she kissed it. Then he bent his head and kissed her tenderly, and she kissed him back, and taking a deep shuddering breath, she released his hand and sat into the car. One of Mycroft's Agents took her case from Sherlock and putting it in the boot, he then closed the door firmly, and got into the passenger seat. An armed Irish Special Branch man sat in the drivers seat and pulled that door closed too. Then the driver turned the engine and switched on the lights and took Molly away into the night.

Sherlock stood watching until the car disappeared through the gates and out of sight, and then walked away into the darkness.

 

 


End file.
